The Veil of Velvet Dreams
by Davos Seaworth
Summary: Twenty years after a nondescript 74th Hunger Games, President Snow's murder opens a power vacuum in the Capitol. 15 year old Terra Pike is just another girl from District 5, but when the 96th Hunger Games call for her, she'll be forced to step into the Capitol's bloody ring - and confront a fracturing nation on the brink of devouring her dreams of life and love.
1. BEGIN BOOK 1

**_Katniss Everdeen's courage failed her at the Reaping of the 74th Hunger Games, and she watched in horror as little Primrose Everdeen fell in the arena – a victim of circumstance, youth, and all-consuming destiny. But smarts beat strength in that forested arena, as an unheralded tribute from District 5, Finch – a girl with a face like a fox and hair as red as fire – emerged victorious. But a twist of fate alters every strand of the future, and with no spark of rebellion, unrest churned across Panem for years beneath a shadow of oppression._**

**_Yet even the iron fist of a tyrant can be shattered._**

**_Now, with the 96th Hunger Games looming on the horizon, the slip of a finger alters the fate of Panem forever. For young Terra Pike of District 5, the shockwaves won't be felt immediately. As shadows cross Terra's path, however, she'll be thrust into a dark new order of the Capitol and the Hunger Games – and the menacing storm raging beneath Panem's veil._**

**/ / / / /**

Snow fell, and three ropes jerked.

The winter air bellowed with the cheers of a thousand applauding onlookers. Encircled by the mob, three bodies suspended by their necks shook from head to toe, wracked with spasms of death. Their eyes glazed over with oblivion and their mouths frothed as if collecting the flurries fluttering down from the overcast night sky. Neon red and green lights lit up the bodies as onlookers laughed and pointed. These men had been dreamers once, but every action carried a consequence. Theirs had cost them their lives and rendered them as nothing more than an amusement for a Capitol audience eager for entertainment.

A hanging well done.

A tall man with the first hints of a receding silvery hairline watched from a secluded balcony. He folded his arms and pulled his crimson cloak tighter across his narrow shoulders to ward out the night's cold.

"Let them have a few hours of fun," he said. "Then cut the bodies down and get rid of them."

"And your father's body?" a stout man to his left said. "He's been lying in state for two days, Creon. Give them more time to mourn."

Creon Snow's jaw tightened. "Enough grieving. Find a place in the crypt for a body and get on with it."

The other man frowned. Cyrus Locke had served Coriolanus Snow for more than a decade and earned the trust of the legendary president of Panem. He'd watched Snow's Hunger Games, seen him put down riots in District 8 and 11, and expanded the iron reach of the Capitol to every overlooked corner of the country. Snow's thanks for fifty years of hard work? Nothing more than a brief speech from his son before his body, its neck still bearing the needle wound of an assassin's venom-tipped dart, would be buried and forgotten in a concrete-lined vault.

So ended an era in Panem. A giant retired, brought down by a trio of ragged philistines. What replaced him? A son, a man? Cyrus had earned Creon Snow's trust, but he didn't know how well he understood the new ruler of millions.

"Those people out there loved your father," Cyrus protested as Creon watched his glowing city. "Loved. Let them mourn. He deserves a little respect."

Creon turned and pushed open a glass door behind the two men. Inside had once housed the former President Snow's greatest escape, a greenhouse home to all species of Coriolanus's treasured roses, brought in from the Capitol to the districts to the tropical southern frontier of the nation. Now the shelves were bare, and hundreds of wilting flowers piled up in a pyre in the center of the room.

"Respect?" Creon said, turning on his companion. "Two days of shutting down this city isn't enough respect?"

"He gave a half-century to this city. He was a visionary, an icon. Build a monument, declare a holiday, put on a special Hunger Games for the year, _something. _He earned that much."

Cyrus had never seen Creon smile. The man's stony face, gray eyes, and wispy hair made him look like a statue of ice in the chilly greenhouse. He picked up a thick wooden rod, with black tar coating a wound-up rag at one end. The new president pulled out a metal lighter from his robe and glanced at the pile of dying roses.

"He wouldn't hear your respect," said Creon. "All dead men are blind and deaf."

The man clicked his lighter on. A tiny droplet of flame sprung from the tip, and when Creon pressed it to the tarry rag, fire leapt up in great bouts.

Shadows writhed upon his stony face. "I don't have any doubts about your loyalty, Cyrus. This country, though, the people here and in the districts…they need a leader. They need guidance, and they need it now. You think a memory or a monument is enough for that?"

"No."

Creon tossed his torch onto the pile of roses. Flame blossomed above the fertile earth of dead things. Wisps of inky smoke slithered through holes in the greenhouse ceiling.

"Enough looking back," Creon said. He turned his back on the fire and staring out at the winking white lights of the Capitol's towers. "The people can have the fun and games my father loved so much. We have to watch over this country now, Cyrus. We've got work to do."

**/ / / / /**

I had to hurry.

A mile-high giant lumbered towards me from the horizon. The sandstorm had welled up in just minutes off the distance, and in no time the towering tan cloud of dust had closed in on the desert flats. Dark Hell, I was stupid. I hadn't been paying attention at all to the wind as I'd hooked up electrical cables to row after row of solar panels. Now I was going to pay for it if I couldn't rush out of here. Already, strong gusts whipped between the fields of glistening silver panels arranged all around me in perfectly geometric arrays. Dust clumped up in mounds next to the thick black cables I'd been hauling about just a few minutes before. The sun still beat down without mercy on the baked land and on my sweat-beaded forehead, but the storm would begin to blot out the daylight in moments.

Forget walking. I broke out into a run.

My brown hair billowed around me as I sprinted towards a wooden scaffolding a quarter-mile away. The rough desert heat made my legs feel like jelly, and I only half-watched where I placed my feet as I ran. Before I knew it, my foot tripped against a black computer monitoring cube, sending me sprawling. "Damn!"

I rubbed sand from my bright blue eyes and glanced over my shoulder. The cloud laughed at my efforts to get away. In a mere minute, it had swelled up from a looming giant into an onrushing freight train of sand and swirling grit. I had two minutes - at best - to get to the lift before it'd overtake me.

No time to sit here and nurse my aching knee. I jumped to my feet and took off running again. Off to my left, a furious dust devil whipped across the ground. Gusts battered my white shirt with a coat of khaki dust, and the yellow scarf tied around my neck yanked like a wind sock. The air coagulated with dust as the sandstorm rolled in. Already I couldn't see the most distant solar panels I'd just been working on. The haze was from more than just the storm: The heat had set off a hammer pounding inside of my head, and my parched tongue felt covered in scales.

I made a mental note to keep myself better hydrated and gritted my teeth. As the first blast of the storm sandblasted the back of my neck, I dashed up to the scaffolding and banging open the elevator's rusty metal doors.

"No, no, no!" I cried as I banged on the black buttons to take me down from the canyon ridge. Bad luck - _of course. _On the back wall of the elevator, someone had hung a wooden "closed - maintenance" sign that spun around on a loop of frayed yarn. _Thanks for telling me, guys_.

I cursed and tied my scarf around my nose and mouth, shielding my eyes with one hand and bracing against the wind with my other arm. The air was a monster now, one giant, coalescing beast of sandpaper that stormed all around me. I strained my eyes to catch a glimpse of the wooden fence that ran fifteen yards to the left, the only thing between me and a drop of hundreds of feet down the rocky canyon.

Gah, I should've gotten down below a half-hour ago. _This is your fault, idiot girl_, I thought.

"Terra!"

I stopped. There was someone else in the storm - someone calling my name. I'd heard _something_, something more than the feeling that I would have to wait this storm out alone and curled up in a ball in the broken elevator.

"Terra!"

A shadow materialized in the storm. I shook my head and looked down as a piece of rock lodged in my eye. When I glanced back up, the shadow jogged forward and grabbed my shoulder.

"-hell are you doing?"

I could barely hear the shadow's words, but I knew my rescuer's thin build, rugged brown jacket, and fine brown hair that looked so much like my own - a copy, even.

"Flint!" I cried, waving my hand in the air to steady myself in the wind.

My twin brother pulled my face into his jacket. "Come on," said Flint.

I coughed and grabbed his waist he pushed ahead into the storm, the lapel of his jacket blocking out the worst of the dust. I was thankful that he'd come for me. I knew the path back to the stairwell that led down the canyon walls to home and hearth - really, I did - but the storm's arrival had thrown off any semblance of direction. There was nothing now but me, Flint, and the rushing wind. Nature had draped a sepia veil over the red desert and blue afternoon skies.

Flint pulled me towards a wooden railing and tightened his grip on my hand. Corrugated steel railings materialized through the dust, and I reached out to grab the rough metal. Finally! I nearly jumped down to the first rickety step in excitement, eager to head down the zig-zagging descent to the canyon floor below. The metal groaned under my feet.

_Creak, creak, creak._

Craggy rock walls on all sides towered higher and higher as I hurried down the stairs. The lower I went, the more the dust storm dissipated, weakening from a gale into a dusty, dry breeze despite the loud howling up above. As the air cleared, District 5 opened up around me.

A giant limestone dam loomed up behind Flint and I, its placid white face resilient against the storm, its brute strength holding back the majestic crystal lake behind it. Thousands of gallons of water rushed out from holes on either side of the canyon, generating electricity for the Capitol and refreshing the powerful river below. That dam was our bread and butter here in District 5, the biggest part of everything that we were. Wind turbines scattered around the surface and built into the canyon walls twisted in the wind, and solar farms and other power sources added to the electricity that we worked so hard to produce - but the dam was an ever-present reminder of exactly why the Capitol and the Peacekeepers were lenient here.

Houses jutted out from the rock on either side of the river below. Some were no more than bungalows, tiny mouse holes cut into the ancient rock, while others, two stories high and built of mud brick and imported white wood clustered about markets and watering holes, interspersed with hardy desert scrub and the occasional brown-tipped palm frond. Even with dust from above lingering in the air, I could just see the towering green algae farms popping up over the canyon walls further down the river. The desert was dry, but life still thrived here.

I had to give her home this much credit: District 5 offered a striking view.

"Terra," Flint said, grabbing my shoulder and stopping me before I could trot down the rest of the staircase. "What'd you do, fall asleep up there? You can't see a damn storm coming?"

I pulled my scarf away from my face and looked off into the distance. "I just got carried away. Sorry."

"You got carried away connecting solar panels?"

I clutched my arms to my side and stepped away. I hated it whenever Flint sounded like this, as if he'd already made up his mind about things before I had a chance to defend myself. Why'd he have to be so critical whenever I slipped up? He wasn't our father.

Heck, I even came out first...

"Why'd you come up?" I asked, trying to steer clear of another drawn-out, patronizing argument.

"Don't change the subject."

"Look, some of the panels were glitchy. They wanted me to look at 'em. Can you just leave it?"

"Who's they? That Peacekeeper supervisor guy?"

"Yes. Orson."

Flint paused and looked towards the buildings below. I followed his gaze. Down near the canyon bend, Peacekeepers had set up tall scaffolds draped in scarlet sheets. The gold of Panem's eagle seal glistened through the haze.

_Reaping tomorrow_.

My gut churned, and I knew why. It was the new president's first Reaping. There was a new Snow leading the country, six months on the job since he old president's death, but would the Hunger Games change as well? The annual festival of blood had been a staple in Panem for nearly ninety-six years; I'd never known life without it every summer. Then again, Coriolanus Snow had been a constant as well. Now he was nothing but dust, no firmer than the sand swirling about above the canyon.

Flint frowned. "Dad wanted me to bring you home before tomorrow. I didn't see you come down with the other guys."

I held back a feeling of resentment in my heart, tempering my urge to ask why _he_ didn't work along the solar arrays like I did after school. I already knew the answer: Our father and mother needed a hand to help in our family's cantina, and they kept Flint around for that. I know what they thought of me. I was extra income, a benefit, a perk. After all, our father had wanted a son...and as he'd said, I was too quiet and "too prone to staring" for working in the cantina, anyway. I guess that made me "weird."

"You know," Flint added when I sighed. "Just want to look like everyone else. Families all get together the evening before the Reaping and all."

And the sun forbid we didn't keep up with the other merchant families_. _"Great. Let's just go."

I shrugged and looked across the canyon. A freight elevator sat motionless at the bottom of a lift that stretched from the canyon floor to the top of the desert. The train station was up there, just a pile of sandstone and mud bricks lost in the dust storm today. Tomorrow it'd take two kids away from here – forever, if our district's recent track record in the Games continued.

_Reaping tomorrow. _

**/ / / / /**

**_~ Thanks for reading! This is a take on an alternate history when Katniss can't summon up the courage to volunteer for Prim. Predictably, Prim…never made it out of the arena. Foxface won the 74th Games, and without a symbol to rally around, the rebellion never came together. It's technically a story that I half-finished two years ago under a different account name, but new and improved!_**

**_Any questions, comments, criticisms, etc. are always welcome! Many of your favorite characters will show up eventually, but a great deal won't show up until later on in the plot as things develop. A few other minor plot points have been adjusted for creative content. Rated T for violence, horror, and occasional mature language. Suzanne Collins owns all original property of The Hunger Games. Enjoy!_**


	2. The Edge

"Does he just stand there like that? Every day?"

I watched the cliff – and the boy. He was a skinny kid dressed in baggy brown clothes with a mop of red hair. That vivid hair was the only notable thing I could pick out about him, besides his standing right at the edge of a cliff that plummeted a hundred feet down into the river. A half-dozen jagged rocks stuck up from the water like predators waiting to nab the boy if he fell. But he didn't, nor did he move. He simply stood there, waiting for nothing.

"I've seen him a couple of times," I murmured.

Dawn snorted and shifted on the rock to my left. "A gust is gonna push him off if he stays there. That, or a Peacekeeper will if he stays there through the Reaping."

"I don't think he'd do that."

"How d'you know?"

"I don't think anyone would do that, Dawn."

Dawn scoffed. She may have been my cousin, but our resemblances ended there. She was two years older than me, at least five inches taller, and had the same dirty blonde hair of my father. It figured, since she was the only child of my father's older brother, and Dawn bore plenty of other resemblances to the man – and more than just physical similarities. Privately, I wondered from time to time whether my father would have preferred her as a daughter.

She glanced back up at the boy on the ledge. "Maybe he's too old for the Reaping."

"Why do you care?" I grumbled.

Dawn shrugged, and with a smirk said, "I dunno. It's just fascinating in a morbid sort of way. Kid on a ledge all by himself. Why's he up there?"

"Exploring? I do it in caves I find, even by myself when you're not around."

"Do you stare off of a hundred-foot ledge when you do it?"

"No, but –"

"See? Not normal, then," Dawn said, looking triumphant.

I looked back up and felt a pang of guilt. For all Dawn knew, the kid had plenty of reasons to be up there. I'd felt left out in school many times, and now I was sitting quietly as my cousin poked fun at a random boy for exactly the same thing. I didn't doubt that to some, the trip off of a high ledge looked a lot more inviting than the trip back to town.

"Let's just go," I muttered. "It's a couple miles back to City Center."

"And at least two hours 'til we have to be there to sign in," Dawn sighed. She brushed dust off of her trousers, glancing back at the boy once and shaking her head. "Good girl Terra, pooping on the party."

I ignored her as we set off hiking down the canyon. I didn't know why I put up with Dawn. Maybe I was desperate for friendship, and her spending time with me, even if it felt exhausting, was still better than real loneliness. I'd never liked crowds and had struggled to connect with others, and in the tightly-knit community of District 5, that had weighed me down like a rock tied to my foot. I got along with my coworkers up at the solar arrays, but besides Dawn and her friend Cliff, only my brother paid me much attention.

Dawn didn't help on our hike back.

"You gonna meet up with anyone before the Reaping?" she asked, tossing a rock up and down as we walked past a pyramidal red rock jutting out into a bend in the river. A trio of tiny mud brick houses stood across the river, flanked by a gaggle of giggling toddlers and a tall white wind turbine. The tower's vanes were still in the stagnant afternoon air, with the sun from a cloudless sky glistening off the metal. It was a far cry from the dust storm that had moved in so fast yesterday and hung around until sunset.

"No," I said, staring down at my feet.

"I'm gonna meet Cliff and a couple other guys beforehand. Are all your friends with their families?"

There we went again. I knew she knew what I'd say, but I figured Dawn enjoyed having the upper hand. "I'm just going alone. With Flint, I guess."

"You need to get out more, Terra. Go talk to more people at school."

_Great. I'll pluck some friends off of my friend tree._ "Yeah, sure. I'll get on that."

Dawn dominated the conversation on the walk back to the Merchant Quarter and home. I only half paid attention, my mind drifting towards the Reaping. It wasn't because I was afraid of being Reaped, given that only four slips read "Terra Pike, Age 15" on them this year. The thought of standing in the midst of thousands of other teens, with the cameras focused on our every move, unnerved me.

The Hunger Games frightened me almost as much as the constant focus of the cameras as it did from the prospect of a brutal death.

As an ache grew in my feet from the walk, the brown and red buildings of town popped up along the canyon walls. People filed over the stone bridges that arched across the canyon river, some heading home to spend time with their children, others heading off for a pre-Reaping drink. Screens as tall as two men stood here and there for the adults, most of whom wouldn't fit in the public square in City Center. The Merchant Quarter was a hive of activity as Dawn and I strolled back into town.

The two brass bells on the nearby cobblestone-walled Church of the Triad clanged five times – one hour until the Reaping, the second to the last one in Panem on this day. Already, most of the tributes in the 96th Hunger Games had been Reaped, and many were on the trains headed towards the Capitol. District 5, however, was close to the central city; it'd only be a short overnight jaunt for the two kids picked today.

Dawn stopped me in front of a wooden stand laden with yucca fronds and jugs of white palm wine, glancing over her shoulder as two merchants argued to one another.

"I'm gonna go," she said. "See you 'round, Terra. Happy Hunger Games, and all that."

She scampered away as soon as she'd finished, leaving before I could get in a word. "Yeah," I muttered, kicking a pebble under the merchant stand. "Happy Hunger Games to you, too, Dawn."

I plodded through the red dirt streets, sliding past bantering young men chattering about tributes selected earlier in the day. I had too much on my mind to listen in.

A number of revelers happy for the day off of work clustered around the wooden doors to an old, two-story bar near the southern end of the Merchant's Quarter. Pike's Cantina, read the blue block lettering on a splintering wooden sign above the door. Home sweet home. I hung my head and stared down at my feet as I walked up to the door, ignoring what was in front of me just enough to run straight into a brick wall.

"Oof!"

I tumbled backwards, clutching my cheek where the bone had collided with solid mass. It wasn't a wall I'd hit.

"The hell are you doing?"

A beast of a man towered over me. He'd lost the hair on his head long ago, but a thick, beard still covered his chin and cheeks in a black jungle. A long scar ran across the man's face from just beside his right eye down to his jawline. The man's broad shoulders and loose-fitting brown vest only made him look more fearsome, putting his bulging arm muscles on display. It had been twenty-four years since Daud Mosely had won the 72nd Hunger Games, but he still looked the part of a natural killer.

I scrambled to my feet, still nursing my cheek. "Sorry, sorry I'm just – just going in."

Daud clutched a clear plastic jug of palm wine in his hand. He took a long swig of the drink and said, "Too young for this swill, girl."

"Just going home," I whispered, eager to get away from the brute of a man. Daud had a horrid reputation in District 5: Not only had he cut down his own district partner without blinking during his time in the arena, but he'd also had as little to do with anyone else here since then – and adding insult to injury, he'd only managed to bring one victor back home since his victory, when Finch had won in the 74th Games. Numerous times after coming home from school and work, I'd seen him drinking alone in the cantina, always choking back the same bitter palm wine in slow, measured swigs. Sometimes he clutched a tattered, leather-bound book in those boulder-sized hands of his, sometimes merely watching the bar like a vulture scouting out its prey.

I didn't want to know what he thought of the place.

As I pushed open the door, Daud grabbed my shoulder. I froze.

"Barkeep's girl?" he asked.

I didn't answer. _Let me go. Just go away._

"Better get ready," Daud grunted, letting go of my shoulder. "Look pretty for the district."

_Thwoosh_. Daud took another swig from his jug.

_Look pretty for the district_. I wondered why he'd said "district," rather than "Capitol" – but then again, it was probably all the same to a man like him. My mother doubted the victor was all there in his head, and I couldn't disagree.

Things didn't improve for me as soon as I entered the bar.

The hazy, poorly-lit interior wasn't as full as I was used to, but two dozen noisy patrons still clinked together glasses and mugs. Judging by the acrid miasma of vomit and booze in the air, someone had drunk far too much in preparation for the Reaping. A pair of chairs lay upended in the corner of the sitting area, with a deck of playing cards scattered about like fallen birds all around them.

Up by the splintering wooden bar, a gray-haired man talked spiritedly with a lanky, dark-haired woman with bright blue eyes. Sometimes I wished my father cared about who my mother chatted up in this place, but to him, it was just good business.

My mother was business. I was income. My brother was an heir. That was our family, to each their roles.

"Mom," I said quietly, sidling up to the bar as far from the man talking her up as I could. "I need –"

"Go take a bath," she interrupted, not bothering to look my way.

"I know, I just need something to change into."

"Your brother put your dress out. Go take a bath."

_Love you too_. I so adored our family talks. Glancing back at my mother talking to the patron at the bar made me think of the boy on the ledge that afternoon. There was something peaceful about being alone on top of a cliff like that, I thought as I tromped down the stairs to our basement washroom. Peaceful, powerful, alone – but in a good way. Maybe Daud was right to turn away from this bustling, busy district full of people I was eager to avoid.

I let my thoughts diffuse into a jumble of nonsense as I washed the red dust of the canyon out of my hair. _Look pretty for the district_. I wouldn't do any more than pretty. Everything would just get dirty again as soon as the wind kicked up, filling every available nook and cranny with the desert sand.

_Mindless_. That was the best I could manage as I pulled on the solid blue Reaping dress my brother had laid out on my bed in our bedroom. _Step out of the bath. Put the stuff on. Walk to the Reaping. Stand. Go home._ Not my idea of exciting television, no matter what the Capitol thought.

"Terra?"

Flint peeked in from my doorway, already dressed in smoothed-out brown trousers and a green button-down shirt. In a way…he did look nice.

"You look fine," he said, reciprocating my thoughts. "But put your hair up. It's a mess."

Always that "but." Still, I didn't argue. I pulled up my hair and fixed my ponytail with a blue ribbon before Flint hurried me up the stairs, urging that we were late. Late to him meant fifteen minutes early, and the thought of standing around with all the kids I didn't know in City Center made me nervous. _Let's just get this done with_.

Fellow teens flooded the street as Flint and I left the bar to a simple "hurry home" from our mother. I hadn't even seen my father since the morning. It made me glad, in a way: He wasn't someone I wanted to see before this. I didn't need him breathing down my neck about this or that as I tried to calm my nerves in the swirling school of children headed across the river bridge towards the gray stone buildings of City Center.

_Clang!_

The church bells banged again – one, two, _six_ times. Reaping time, time for the afternoon shadows to grow long and thin as the sun neared the end of its trek across the sky.

"You alright?"

Flint grabbed my hand as we walked across the river. I only noticed then that I'd been clutching my sides.

"Fine," I muttered, lying more to myself than him.

"It's, uh," Flint stuttered. "Not good at this stuff, but it's just a short thing, Terra. We'll be back home in an hour."

I nodded. Just an hour.

The crowds on the street made my head feel hazy. I clenched my teeth as Flint and I separated at the tables to sign in for the Reaping. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply to steady myself. _Just an hour with all these other people_.

The sign-in line seemed to take an hour on its own, as we inched towards the Peacekeeper-crewed tables at a snail's pace. It was almost a relief by the time I got to the front and one of the Peacekeepers logged me in. Terra Pike, here for the fourth year. Three more of these to go after today.

The Capitolian media crew had turned City Center into a monument to Panem. Scarlet and gold banners hung from every building in the square, and workers had laid down artificial stone on the dusty ground to give a more classical take for the cameras. A giant, stylized portrait of the late President Coriolanus Snow hung from a white banner that covered the front of the Hall of Justice, accompanied by a smaller gold banner with the likeness of his son, the new president Creon. _Pageantry!_ I thought. _Maybe it looks better on TV_.

I clutched my arms around my sides again as soon as I lined up in the roped-off fifteen year-old girls' section of the square. I clutched my hands to my sides as sweat beaded up under my arms. Most of the girls were quiet, but when I glanced up at the hulking cameras arranged around the rooftops, I imagined each of them looking down at me. _Take a look, ladies and gentlemen_, I could even now hear Cicero Templesmith booming. _Look at this creature! Wouldn't want to Reap that! It might die during our pre-Games interviews!_

I stood up on my tiptoes, trying to find Flint in the crowd. Nothing – nothing but heads, heads, and more heads, faces I didn't recognize, a sea of people probably wondering why I was craning my neck like a stork. Forget it. I stared at the ground as the last kids filed into the square. Up at the landing in front of the Hall of Justice, our old mayor had walked through the doors and was busy tapping the microphone in testing. He was alone save for one person sitting down in a chair off to the side – the last person I expected to show up early.

Daud. He looked half-asleep, but there he was, still clutching his jug of wine.

He wasn't alone for long. A flash of red hair burst through the door as a short woman hurried onto the stage, saying a quick hello to the mayor before siding up next to Daud. Unlike Daud, Finch Rivers was a respectable victor. The winner of the 74th Games may have kept to herself, but she'd emerged from the arena behind a minimum of bloodshed – and if cantina rumors were to be believed, Finch had done her best to try and bring someone home every year, even if she had failed every time. Even Daud seemed happy to see her when she plopped down in a chair beside him, offering up the first smile I'd ever seen from the man.

The last member of the party emerged after another five minutes, bursting from the door with the usual swirl of his long, flowing charcoal-gray cloak. I never knew what to make of Elan Triste, District 5's Capitol escort. He looked like any other escort from past Games showings, but something about the way he carried himself ramrod-straight, with a careful, measured step, told me he carried something else underneath those robes.

To his credit – and my thankfulness – he didn't waste any time getting started. "I'll pass on the usual introduction I'm sure you've all figured it out by now," Elan said, rubbing a hand over his navy blue-dyed, short-cropped hair. "But I will take the time to say a word of remembrance."

Elan turned back towards the banner behind him. "Coriolanus Snow as a good man, an orderly man who presided over a strong rule for 50 years. The Hunger Games, Panem itself, models of stability. The Games themselves, after all, are as much a monument to that peace as anything. May our new president reign just as successfully. He deserves a moment."

The escort paused, clutching his hands together and closing one eye. Clearly Elan didn't care about following the usual protocol of kicking off the Reaping, but did he care that much about the late president? Was it all for show?

"Thank you," Elan said before I could think any further. I noticed a camera looking right at our section and I glanced down at my feet again. _They're staring right at me. Right now. Ugh_.

"Let's begin, District 5."

Elan hurried over to the first Reaping bowl. He hadn't announced which gender he'd select first, but he'd traditionally kicked things off with girls. For a brief moment, my breath caught in my chest. The thoughts of the cameras, the staring Capitol audience, the other kids packed in around me – all of those disappeared. For that moment, I only cared about Elan's fingers darting through the bowl.

_Please don't._

He frowned as he plucked a strip from the bowl and read it over once. As if on cue, his eyes darted up towards my section.

"If I could ask Miss Terra Pike to come to the stage."

The square froze. I couldn't pretend I'd misheard what Elan had said. _Terra Pike_. Me.

Oh, no. No, no, Gods _no_.

Now _all _the cameras were looking at me.

I couldn't help myself. My left knee gave out and I stumbled down into the ground, planting a hand onto the fake stone to keep myself up. My eyes welled up as I glanced up. Two Peacekeepers were already on their way…and I knew I wouldn't be able to get up in time to stop them from dragging me to the stage.

"No," I choked as one of the Peacekeepers grabbed my arm, yanking me up off of the ground.

My eyes flooded over with tears as the Peacekeeper forced me forward. I hadn't really thought Dawn was a bad friend, or that my family thought I was a nuisance. Really! I could live with them. I wouldn't mind. Just not this, not this.

I could imagine Cicero's excited shouts already: "In the president's name, a real waterworks from District 5! My word, folks, we'll need a cleanup crew…"

I didn't care. Every step towards the stage and every jab from the Peacekeeper's fist brought another round of tears from my eyes and a pathetic little sob from my throat.

"Please," I cried to the Peacekeeper as I reached the stairs to the stage. "I didn't do anything. I don't want this!"

He jabbed his fist into the small of my back, sending me stumbling up the stairs. Right before I lost my balance, a firm hand reached out and grabbed my arm. I looked up, blinking away tears, as Elan stared down at me. Somewhere behind those dull gray eyes of his was a flash of something I didn't expect – sympathy.

"It's only for a little while," he whispered as he pulled me up onto the stage. In a snap, he turned back to the microphone. "Terra Pike, ladies and gentlemen. Your tribute for the girls."

No one clapped. No one did much of anything except for the girls exhaling in relief of avoiding another year, but I could barely focus on standing up straight. My eyes had turned into jelly, and my throat already was growing scratchy from crying. By the time Elan announced "Glenn Turner" for the boys, my dress's sleeve was drenched in tears I'd hastily brushed off of my cheeks.

I had to stop when I saw the boy who'd be joining me on this horrible misadventure. Glenn wasn't crying, nor panicking and pleading like me. He was as stiff as a board, his face as stony as the canyon walls.

I didn't know him by name, but I knew who he was. I'd seen him standing alone on a cliff just a few hours before.

**/ / / / /**

**_+ Thanks for all the reads so far, guys, and big thanks to BamItsTyler for the favorite and follow!_**


	3. Narratives

_**+ Huge shout-out to both ArtemisCarolineSnow and BamItsTyler for the reviews! Thanks guys, feedback's always great to hear, and thank you as well to everyone who's reading!**_

_**/ / / / /**_

When Glenn stepped up to the podium, I felt even worse for idling as Dawn made fun of him earlier.

There was nothing behind his glassy hazel eyes. Glenn's face lacked any sign of a spark, but I doubted it was just because of the Reaping. He looked like he'd been dead inside for a long time, from the way his cheeks stretched tight over his face, to the creases that dug gorges his dust-covered forehead, and to the way his eyes seemed to sink into his face. Even that bright red hair of his didn't look so vivid up close. It thinned in patches, as if someone had plucked out hairs here and there at random.

No one applauded for Glenn. No one in the crowd showed as much as a tear of remorse for his Reaping. When he shook my hand with a clammy, chilly grip, I held on to his palm for just an extra second. My eyes clouded up with a fresh spring of tears, but I couldn't help but feel for the emptiness I saw in my district partner.

We were both in trouble, but from the way he looked at me – _through_ me, even – I guessed Glenn had been troubled for quite some time already.

"Don't waste time out here," Elan whispered to us, ushering Glenn and I towards the Justice Hall's doors. " Go in."

I was grateful to him. All the eyes watching me fall apart on the stage, both in the square and through those probing cameras all around the rooftops, made me want to curl up into a ball. The lights were icy white inside the spartan wood-lined halls of the building, and the air was too cold for mid-June, but at least I was free from all those prying eyes in here.

Free. Free to press my face into the plush cushions of hard-backed couch in this room the Peacekeepers left me in. Free to digest my shock and terrible luck all alone, with my only company the leering gazes of old, wrinkling men frozen in time via blurry pastel portraits hung around the room.

What a morbid send-off.

I sniffed and wiped my nose on the pillow just as the door creaked open. I didn't know who I was expecting to visit me – Flint maybe, or Dawn – but it was neither my brother nor my cousin walking into the room as I looked up. It was my father.

I hastened to wipe the tears off of my face. I didn't want to fall apart like this in front of him.

My father inhaled sharply and sat down in a chair in front of me. He rubbed his eyes with a weary, vein-streaked hand, leaned back, and said, "Terra…not a lot of time. Your mother said she couldn't handle coming in, but you should know that she's not happy about any of this."

I started to reply, but he held up his hand: "No. Just let me talk. Stay there."

"It's the Hunger Games," he said. "Everyone knows the odds aren't very good, so I'm not going to bother talking about how to get out of the arena. I'm a smart man. It's just…"

He paused and glanced down at his hands. Not once had my father made eye contact. "You're my child, and you have my name. You're Terra Pike, not Terra anyone else. That's enough crying. When you go back out there to the train, stand up straight and tall. Be proud of who you are."

"Dad, I –"

"No. That's enough."

My father got up, and for the first time since he'd stepped into the room, he looked me square in the eye. I didn't see remorse or regret in the lines on his face. I didn't see anything but the hardness I'd always seen in my father. The Reaping hadn't changed him.

"Don't let me down, daughter," he said.

The door swung open and my father was gone.

I buried my head back in the cushions. _Stand up straight_. I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything more from my father. Even now I was just an extension from him, and my pleading on the way up to the stage no doubt wouldn't impress the district. _There goes another one_, I heard them say in my head. _We feel bad, but what can we do? That's bad luck_.

My eyes threatened to unleash another river, but I held back the tears this time. I didn't relate to my father much, but maybe he was right about this. If I was doomed anyway, maybe I just needed to swallow my fear and clench my jaw. I was scared, but I couldn't change that. Hell, couldn't looking tough even give me a better chance in the Games?

By the time Flint stepped into the room, my face was bone dry.

"Terra?"

I leaned back and straightened up as Flint eschewed the chair, flopping down beside me and laying a hand on my knee. "You, uh," he stammered. "You...how are you?"

_Don't cry again. _"I'm fine. I mean, I'll be fine. I'm not fine, but I will be."

"Did Dad already come talk to you?"

"Yeah."

He sighed. "You can tell me what you're feeling. You don't have to pretend like you're okay."

My lip trembled. "I bet I looked stupid."

"You didn't look stupid."

"People probably think I'm pathetic."

Flint pulled me towards him. "Stop worrying about what other people are thinking, Terra. You just focus on you."

"Flint, it's the Games!"

"I know, I know. But that doesn't mean you have to feel guilty for doing what anyone else would do. I'd cry too if they called my name."

I put my hands in my face and exhaled. "No you wouldn't."

"I would. Terra, I'm not gonna lie to you and say that everything's gonna be okay. This sucks, and I wish I could change it or something, but I can't. I can't, and I hate it. I hate seeing this happen to my sister."

Flint pulled me into a hug. "But whatever happens, I'll be in your quarter. Okay? You don't worry about what those stupid cameras do. I just want you to come home."

"Everyone wants to go home," I mumbled.

"I'm not them," he said. Flint's face darkened, his eyes flashing as if he'd condemn everyone else in this stupid game himself. "And neither are you. Whatever happens, just remember what's best for you."

I swallowed a sob before it could escape my lips and looked up at the ceiling to hold back another wave of tears. "Flint, I just –"

The door creaked open, and a Peacekeeper leaned in. "C'mon, man," he said, pointing to Flint. "I gave you an extra minute, but we gotta keep going. Let's go."

My brother didn't fight it. He got to his feet and pulled me up with him, whispering in my ear, "Whatever it takes, sis. Love you, Terra."

I held onto his hand for a fleeting moment, his fingers slipping through my grasp. Flint looked back one more time before he disappeared through the door. I was alone again – alone, a girl who had probably seen her brother and closest friend leave for the last time. All of the confidence Flint had tried to instill in me washed away as quickly as it had set in.

_Don't cry, don't cry – damnit_.

I wiped at my face as someone spoke outside my door. Another visitor – Dawn, maybe. This parade of faces that I'd likely never see again was making goodbye so much harder.

But the man who walked through the door wasn't someone I'd leave behind in District 5.

"I only need a few moments with her, sir," the man said to the Peacekeeper as he walked in. "But it shouldn't matter. After all, the visitor queue looks a little light this year."

Elan strode in, pulling his shiny cloak in through the door and shutting it with nary the lightest _thump_. My father had sat down in the chair and my brother had taken a seat on the couch, but my escort did not sat. He clasped his hands behind his back, lowered his head, and stared me right in the eye.

"You shouldn't wipe those tears away," he said.

I huddled into the side of the couch and replied, "Don't I – don't I get more time for visitors?"

"You have no more visitors, Ms. Pike."

"But – we're leaving already? Just give me a little more time, please – Glenn's gotta have visitors too."

"He had none, but I'm not rushing you. Not as long as I'm the one with the schedule."

I pulled my knees up to my chest and folded my hands on top of them. I'd seen escorts from other districts on previous Games showings, from the patriotic ones to the bubbly and excited ones to those who were just doing their jobs. Elan had always been a bit different, a bit more reserved – and up close, that reservation made the hairs on my arms stand up like Peacekeepers at attention.

"Am I supposed to be doing something?" I asked.

"Oh, no. Nothing forced, at least," he said. "But every year I stop in for a little talk before our departure. Sometimes a little guidance goes a long way, but Mr. Turner wasn't so receptive of my overtures. So, here I am."

"Every year?"

"Every year. Speaking of, I've never liked the paintings in this room. Too gloomy and dark. Dead leaders and politicians aren't very inspiring from my point of view."

"So what's your advice?"

"I'd resume crying, if I were you."

I furrowed my brow. _That's your advice_? "My father told me to look strong."

"Oh, I know. But your father is a man who likes the sound of his own voice, wouldn't you say?" he said. Elan creased his lips and added, "Not much of a goodbye, I think."

"Were you listening in on me?"

"Of course! I have a penchant for eavesdropping. It's a bad habit I'm in no hurry to kick."

I clenched my jaw. This man, this Capitol escort, made me mad. Who was he to interrupt my last time alone in District 5, even if I didn't have any more visitors coming to see me? For a man who said he wasn't rushing me, Elan certainly seemed like he was in a hurry to dunk me into the world of the Games.

"What do you want?" I said, wrapping my arms around my knees and pulling them tighter against my chest.

Elan looked hurt. "I'm an escort. I'm here to help."

"Why do you care?"

"My motives are just tributaries, Terra. They come from here and there and feed all into the larger whole. But I am not here to poke fun at you, and I am not here to ridicule you. When I tell you that I'm here to help my tributes, I'm telling you the most honest thing you'll ever hear leave my lips."

He finally sat down, sitting ramrod straight in the chair across from me and folding his hands on his knee. "Try to think of something sad," he said. "You might think you made a fool out of yourself after I called your name, but there's nothing sacred about looking strong. Not for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do you know how to fight? Are you a trained warrior or survivalist?"

"No."

"Are you proud to be representing District 5?"

"N- I mean, yes, but –"

"You're not. Perfectly understandable. But it's obvious that you're not, and fighting against that is a lot harder than simply picking a more suitable role to play."

I looked away and sniffed. "Aren't my mentors the ones who are supposed to talk about this kind of stuff?"

"They'll tell you the details I wouldn't," Elan said, leaning forward and planting his elbows on his knees. "But every victor has a narrative, and you began writing your story the moment I pulled your name from that bowl. The earlier you understand exactly what kind of game we're playing, the better."

"My brother just said to not worry about the cameras and stuff."

"Terra, please. He's seen life and the Hunger Games through the lens of District 5, and so have you. But the Capitol trades in half-truths and lies of omission. It's a machine you've never seen a real glimpse of. You're not fighting against twenty-three children in an arena. You're building a brand. There's a reason why every victor has one, and there's a reason why those tributes who lacked one are dead."

Elan stood up and strode to the door, turning back just before he grabbed the handle. "I'll give you a few more minutes before we leave for the train. Tears, Terra. It's a human look. It'd be a shame if I waste my efforts yet again on a story that ends too soon."


	4. Bombshells

Once the train started off from the rickety mud brick station up atop the desert flats, it took less than a minute before the canyon and every trace of the thriving town within it disappeared. Another minute and I couldn't see the giant windmills and algae towers that poked up through the canyon top. Five minutes after the train started off from District 5, it curved into a tunnel cut through a blood red mountain, pulling a shade over the portrait of the sandy desert flats and late afternoon skies tinted with flecks of gold.

Just like that, I'd left my home for the first, and possibly last, time. Fifteen years evaporated like a mirage.

"The heat never agreed with me," Elan said, filling up a crystal glass full of water from a pitcher resting on a chrome-inlaid tray. He swallowed half of the contents in one gulp and swirled the rest around his glass aimlessly. "But District 5's quaint. Not so much clutter as in here."

"Clutter" was the last word I would have used to describe the lounge car. We'd left the heat and dust behind and stepped into a climate-controlled amalgam of everything that was the Capitol. Rose-tinted glass bulbs lit up above my head from a ceiling-mounted chandelier. Tables made of some glossy black wood lined the polished blue walls. Even the chair I sat in defied belief. I felt as if it would swallow me up in its cloud-like cushions. The combination of the opulence we'd walked into, the fresh spring-like scent that wafted through the air, and my exhaustion from the horrible twist the day had taken made my eyes feel heavy.

I could have fallen asleep on that train right then and never woken up. It was a much better fate than the myriad horrors awaiting me that flitted through my mind.

The train hurtled out of the mountain tunnel, shaking and rumbling as sunlight shined back in through the windows. For one moment it jolted me out of my thoughts as the car rattled with a dark, grating sound.

"They give us the worst train?" Glenn muttered next to me with a much darker voice than I'd expected. I'd barely paid him any attention since getting on board. Where my cheeks were still littered with rivers of tears, his eyes were bone dry.

"The least receptive train, maybe," said Elan. "A train built in Daud Mosely's image."

I sniffed. "Where is he?"

"Probably abusing a small animal somewhere," my escort said. He shrugged and set down his glass. "I'll find your more sociable mentor for supper. The dining car's the next one towards the front. It's already getting late, so we'll eat in say…fifteen minutes. For now – Ms. Pike, Mr. Turner."

Elan nodded his head and ducked through the door to the next car. As soon as he had left, Glenn stood up and brushed dust off of his trousers.

"S'pose we should eat before we die," he muttered.

I frowned. "We have a chance," I said, more to convince myself than debate him.

"Doubt it," he said, shrugging. "Suit yourself. I'm rather just eat."

Glenn let the door slam behind him. I supposed he was being realistic. We were, after all, just two kids from District 5. It'd been twenty-two years since our district had sniffed victory. We weren't volunteers, we weren't trained or ready or prepared for this. I wanted to hang on to hope, to clutch something, _anything_ that could keep me going, but my future had faded with my home in the dust of the train's departure.

I pressed my hands to my forehead. How could Glenn even think about eating? How could he be so matter-of-fact about this?

Before I followed Glenn into the dining car, I stopped and placed my fingers on the window. The land I'd grown up with fell further and further behind me with each passing second. Maybe it was hot, maybe it was dry and dusty, maybe the summers brought towering sandstorms with the rainy season, but this desert was home. I'd seen the past Hunger Games. I could end up in foot-deep snow, a dense jungle, or an arena so terrifying I'd go insane. I might never see the warm southwestern sun again.

_Damn it. Damn everything. _

I balled my fist and pushed the door open. Elan and Finch hadn't arrived yet, but Glenn sat alone at the table, his palms stretched out and facing up, his head bowed. I stopped on a dime and started to back up to leave him alone, but he snapped his head up and looked back.

"Oh," he said, scooting his chair in. "You're quiet."

"I can leave. Didn't mean to bother you," I replied.

"Naw. Screw it."

"Are you –"

"Just forget it."

I sat down across the wide dining table from Glenn, rubbing my hand over the polished auburn wood. There was more to Glenn than met the eye. I knew I needed to keep my eye on the Games, but at the same time, I wanted to know more about my district partner. We didn't have anyone but each other now – and our teams, but they weren't headed into the arena. Neither of us deserved to be alone in what could be our last days.

"I've never seen you around school," I said. I figured mentioning that I'd seen him standing on the edge of a cliff wasn't the best way to start a conversation.

He fingered the gleaming silverware set out before him, his thumb rubbing up and down his knife as if it were a comfort. "Haven't gone to school in a while."

_Great topic, Terra_. "Did you work at one of the plants?"

"Nah."

"What d'you do?"

"I got Reaped. I woulda volunteered if I hadn't."

My breath caught. _What?_

Before I had time to digest what he said, the door burst open again. A flash of red hair caught my eye, and a short, lithe woman strode in as if she were expecting distinguished guests. Finch Rivers carried herself with more confidence than anyone I'd ever seen in District 5. Now in her forties, she was a far cry from the cautious yet shrewd fifteen year-old who'd run circles around her adversaries back in the 74th Games. She'd accepted her place as a victor and had emerged long ago as the face of District 5 to the country. Up close, the way she held her chin high and stood up without a hint of a slouch justified that position.

"Hey, guys," Finch said, sitting down in the chair next to me. Elan entered right on her heels. "I'm Finch. You probably know me."

She pointed to each of us: "Terra. Glenn. I'm good with names. Don't worry about thinking too far ahead right now. Elan, are they –"

The arrival of a quartet of red-robed avoxes interrupted her. I'd seen avoxes, the silent servants of the Capitol, in the corners of television broadcasts in the Capitol before, but watching them arrange a myriad of steaming plates of food without a single slip was almost artistic. They moved without a sound. If I hadn't been inundated with the heaps of browned meat, goblets of moist grapes and bright fruits, and trays full of sweet-smelling breads and biscuits, I would have missed them entirely.

"Always on schedule," Elan said, pouring himself a glass of water.

"No kidding," Finch said. "C'mon you guys, eat. It's not poisonous."

I poked at a biscuit with my fork. "Are…uh, they're probably showing the recap of all the Reapings. Are we supposed to watch that?"

Finch shook her head and placed the biscuit on my plate. "Forget about that stuff right now, Terra. You've got enough on your plate – well, not that plate. Seriously, eat. But you two have had enough Games action for the day. Let's just start slow, okay? I want you both to be alright before we get into all the details. We can cover what you need to know for tomorrow in the morning."

I had to give one thing to Finch: She knew how to take control of a bad situation. Her reputation as one of the smartest victors wasn't for nothing.

She wasn't kidding about the food either. The first bite I took of the biscuit overwhelmed my tastebuds with a scrumptious explosion. I abandoned my modesty, heaping as much onto my plate as I could. _Guess Glenn had a point_.

"So," Finch said, taking a bite of a biscuit and turning to me. "I want to know a bit more about you guys. What did you back home, Terra?"

I didn't expect her to be so forward right off the bat. Spearing at a globe of some leafy green vegetable, I said, "Just…work and school. And stuff."

"Yeah? Where'd you work?"

"Just the – the solar farms."

"Really? Smarty pants."

I blushed. "I dunno about that."

"I could never figure that stuff out," Finch said, inspecting a piece of red meat on her fork. "You have that on me."

For a victor, Finch had a remarkable way of making someone feel good about themselves.

"How 'bout you, Glenn?" she went on. "Same deal?"

He looked up. Glenn had already finished off nearly his entire plate. "Nah. Not really."

"Yeah? What do you do for fun back in the district?"

"Nothing. Much."

"Ah, that's life," Finch said. I caught her just as she glanced over at Elan, the mentor and escort meeting each other's gazes for a quick moment. That was what she was up to: She wasn't really interested in what we did for fun. She wanted to know what she had to work with without asking that very question.

Elan's advice in the Hall of Justice came back to me. Maybe Finch wanted to make Glenn and I feel at home, but we were both still on camera. Our audience was our team, but it was still an audience. _The earlier you understand the game, the better_.

"What d'you do?" I asked. Finch's compliment had given me a burst of confidence, and I wanted to get her on my side as fast as I could.

She looked surprised. "Me? I – first time one of you guys has asked me that. I don't really have –"

"She mucks around and tries to sound smart."

I whirled around in my chair. Daud loitered by the door, resting up against wall with his arms crossed and wearing what I could only describe as a sack of potatoes.

"Never a better introduction in all the twelve districts," Elan scoffed.

"Only here for a bite," Daud said. He barged forward and cut in between Finch and I, grabbing a large yellow fruit in each of his hands.

Finch's lip curled. "You can sit down to eat," she said, her voice dropping an octave.

"Got a call to make," Daud said, retreating back to the door. "Just finished on the phone with Odair. Big Odair, not the little one. Said there's a…twist…coming in the arena this year."

A chill ran up my arm. _Twist?_

Finch looked as if she were ready to fight her fellow mentor to the death. "Daud, we can talk about this later, in private, when -"

"Finnick told you that?" Elan interrupted her.

Daud laughed with a sharp bark. "True, then? You know everything."

He slipped back through the door, peeling one of the fruits as he left. Our conversation died with the slamming of the door. Elan furrowed his brow, as if some great secret had just come out, while Finch was doing a remarkable job keeping her cool.

It was Glenn who cut through the awkward silence. "Think I'm gonna get out of here."

"You don't have to mind him," Finch said, closing her eyes and clenching her jaw. "He's not very tactful. You can stay and eat more."

"Nah. I'm fine."

She didn't argue as Glenn left, but ushered me to follow him out and cleanup for bed. I didn't argue. Something told me that we weren't supposed to know about the cryptic bomb Daud had just dropped on dinner.

"I'll take her to her room," Elan said, guiding me out of the dining room and leaving Finch alone to a lonely supper.

I didn't get more than a step into the lounge car before Elan stopped me. He shut the door behind him, made sure the door to the next car was closed, and poured himself another glass of water.

"Obviously you weren't supposed to know that," Elan said, swirling the water around. "But neither was Daud, nor Finnick Odair from District 4. Even the most renowned of victors don't receive inside knowledge on the Games, which tells that someone's leaking information intentionally."

I watched him as he paced along the wall. "That means," Elan said, "that you need to be doubly careful. Someone wants an extravaganza for the new president."

"Why are you telling me?" I asked. "Why me and not Glenn?"

"Oh, I will tell him," said the escort. "I'm an escort. It's my job to help one of you win and come home, and if he's receptive, I'll spend just as much effort on him as I do on you. I know you feel for the boy, but I don't think he's what you expect. For the downtrodden in the world, life isn't always worth fighting for."

He opened the door towards the rear of the train and said, "Be careful around cornered animals, Terra."

_**+ Thanks for another upbeat review, ArtemisCarolineSnow! A lot of talk in these past two chapters, but exciting things are coming soon with the arrival to the Capitol on the way! **_


	5. Surprises

_**+ Big thinks to ArtemisCarolineSnow for the ongoing reviews, and for everyone reading along!**_

**/ / / / /**

"The Games aren't your little plaything, Galan. They mean something. It's not just entertainment."

"You can stop standing on ceremony. They're games. I don't see what you can think they are besides entertainment, a little slice of fun and action to bring people out of their hollow lives for a few days."

Cyrus Locke raised his shoulders and frowned. The Head Gamesmaker, Galan Greene, had never struck him the right way, even if he had conducted the annual blood festival with a deft hand for six years. Maybe it was his casual arrogance about his running of the business. Maybe it was the spiky, inky tattoos that littered the man's bald skull and snaked down his thin arms, the ones Galan always kept bare to show off his body art. Or maybe it was the way he walked with a cool, swishing confidence, his chin raised high so that his eyes looked down on the rest of the crowd in the Capitol Forum as if he were some feudal lord deigning to dirty himself among the peasantry.

The less time he had to spend with this man, the better.

"They're Coriolanus Snow's games," Cyrus said. "The word tribute has significance this year."

Galan scoffed. "Coriolanus Snow's been dead for six months now, Cyrus. You should try living in the present."

"You owe everything you have to him."

"And you too, but that doesn't matter much now, does it? Look over there."

Cyrus stopped and shielded his eyes from the hot morning sun with his hand. On the far side of the forum, where the wide asphalt square tapered off into an adjacent street leading to the Avenue of the Tributes, a black sedan with tinted windows hurried past a goggling crowd. The onlookers cried and cheered, throwing rainbow confetti at the car as it passed.

Galan laughed. "District 2's tributes headed off for a remodeling. Look at all the entertainment."

"Creon's not so happy about all of it," Cyrus mused. "I've done my best to convince him otherwise."

"He'll learn to like it. His father did. Let's get going, hm? I don't want to keep the lab geeks waiting on us for too long."

Galan ushered Cyrus towards a squat, gray, domed building at the far end of the two mile-long forum. The Capitol Science Center looked so out of place amid the hustle and bustle of the Forum, with its myriad stalls and storefronts selling anything and everything that money could buy. Out here, bright colors, screams of delight, and sweet aromas threatened to overload Cyrus's senses.

"You need to relax a little bit," Galan said as the two men hurried past a crowd of giggling boys crowded about a cluster of street performers satirizing the past year's Hunger Games. "It's all good fun, and you might be getting more out of this year's contest than you think."

"Like what?"

Galan glanced around and leaned closer. "Good authority wants to keep closer tabs on the victors and the districts. This year's winner will be…working…much closer with all of us. Even with Creon."

"Good authority?"

The Head Gamesmaker smiled. "Good authority. There're a million ways to conscript a victor into jobs that need doing."

Cyrus felt heat rising in his gut. Someone else had dug their claws into the Head Gamesmaker, and he had a good idea just who it was.

For as warm and lively as it was out in the Forum, the Science Center was equally as cold and sterile. The bitter smell of antiseptic assaulted Cyrus as he pushed past a pair of white-cloaked lab technicians and walked into the Center's foyer. Slate-gray walls met him with blank expressions. An energetic buzz of chatter flitted through the air, from a trio of short, heavily-tattooed scientist types in one corner of the wide hall to a pair of young women with matching fuschia hairdos seated on a bench near the half-moon reception desk, but it was all a hum of confusion to Cyrus's ears. He didn't understand all the talk of _transplant_ and _subjects_ and _genotypes_ thrown around from lips to ears. The man left the nitty-gritty of the Hunger Games to those with bigger brains and smaller eyes.

Galan stopped him as they reached the reception desk. "Ah!" he cried, reaching out a hand to a gaunt man exiting an adjacent hallway that smelled of lemon with a hint of something foul. "No waiting around for you!"

The newcomer pulled up the sleeves of his black lab coat and shook the Head Gamesmaker's hand with a vigorous squeeze. "Well, you're pressing us for time. Games less than a week away…less than a week – Counselor Locke? Pleasant surprise. You here to check in on the project?"

"Project?" said Cyrus. He didn't shake the man's hand, but something about the scientist took him off guard. Cyrus had expected some stereotype of the lab technicians, a slouching, balding man obsessed with his work, perhaps. But while this man was no physical specimen with his slouched shoulders and blonde stubble that dotted his face in patches, he carried himself with the utmost confidence. His voice was as dark and brooding as distant thunderclaps. "Galan only told me I'd be interested in what this place had to show."

"Interested?" the scientist said. "Understatement of the 96th Games. I'm the chief scientist here, Varno Rensler. Mr. Greene has me working overtime just to see this through. As our new leader's right-hand man, it's best you do take a look."

He moved to lead the two down the strange-smelling hallway, but paused just before taking a step. "It's…I'm not sure what you're expecting, Counselor, but I think you'll be the one in for a surprise next."

"What're you concocting in here?" Cyrus said as the three headed down the hallway.

Varno waved his hand in the air. "This and that. It's science. We make miracles here and people on the street call it entertainment. Doesn't diminish the miracle. Sometimes we don't even make miracles, we just…stumble across them. Dig them up, even."

"The Games don't need a miracle. Just a solid showing, no mistakes. It's important we get it right this year of all years," said Cyrus.

"We'll get it more than right," Galan murmured.

Cyrus folded his arms as the trio stepped into an empty elevator. The Head Gamesmaker's arrogance would get the better of him one day. For all he knew, the victor would be some meek fourteen year-old who got lucky. That'd hardly be much of a first victor for Creon Snow's new regime.

"I know what you're thinking," Varno said as the elevator rushed downward. His voice was little more than a whisper. "We're just making mutts. Mutts, what the districts call what grows and births down on the bottom floor. Mutts. But mutts are dumb things, things that don't think and things that don't feel. Unthinking things and unfeeling things bore me. I have a better eye than that for what your contest needs, Counselor. Just…"

He frowned. "You might want to know going ahead of time that what we're making might seem a little…unnatural."

"And that means what?" Cyrus said.

The elevator doors opened, and chilly air rushed in between the doors. It wasn't the cold, however, that caused goosebumps to stand up on Cyrus's arms. It was the smell, the reek of things that were caught somewhere between death and life, things that other men may have called science, but to Cyrus smelled only…unnatural.

"I've been hard at work. We all have," Varno said with a smile. "We'll give the country something it hasn't seen before."

/ / / / /

I gritted my teeth. I'd had enough of the cold air and the smell of antiseptic.

What in the Two Hells was taking so long? My trio of stylists had long since left this concrete-walled box they called a "styling ward." It'd been a hectic ride since this morning, when the train had pulled in between the gleaming skyscrapers of the Capitol before Elan had left Glenn and me in this horrible place.

I was grateful that my stylists had left after what seemed like an eternity of them scrambling like roadrunners about the room, grabbing tools and brushes and squawking to one another in their mockingbird voices. A million pricks and scrubs and prods from things only the Capitol and the three lords knew and I'd been abandoned here to shake and shiver, damp, naked, and confused.

All this in the name of "styling" for the chariot ride that night. Who knew looking presentable required a full-on bodily assault?

The paper gown I'd worn earlier lay crumped in a heap on the floor, covered in water and some grimy, shiny-looking substance. I wondered if Glenn was having as much fun as I was. I wondered if he even cared.

_Creak_.

The door squeaked open so slowly I imagined an earthworm was pushing it. But it was no worm: The tallest woman I'd ever seen sauntered in, her all-white, neck-to-ankle ensemble clinging to her paper-thin frame. Elan's appearance might not have seemed much different than any I'd known back home, but this woman was far from anything I'd seen in District 5. Tattooed-on hair seemed to spike up from her bald head. Tiny purple whorls of body paint spun around on the top of her hands and across her cheeks. Perhaps most startlingly, a pair of dark brown streaks drooped down from her eyes all the way to her jawline, as if she'd cried out some horrible abomination from deep within.

She didn't say a word as she approached me. Between her height and her drastic body art, I was too intimidated to say much myself – even as she yanked me up from my seat.

Like a snake she circled me, eying every inch of my naked body and missing nary a thing. Her silence prickled my skin, and the way she stooped down to examine parts of me I'd never wanted examined made me want to sprint out of this hellish stylist center.

For all I knew, she was just some random passerby who'd decided to take a look.

Another near-eternity passed until finally the strange woman muttered, "It's too gangly. Not going to work."

I protested, but before I said two words, she clapped a floral-smelling hand over my mouth. My eyes widened. What in…

The woman pulled away and began scribbling notes on a computer tablet. "Let's see if it'll stay quiet long enough for me to work," she said to herself.

This wasn't what I was expecting out of my head stylist – or at least, I figured she was my head stylist. No introduction, no questions, not even a reference to me as a person. Was I just a thing to be dressed up and paraded around? "It, the tribute." That was me.

Another five minutes of silence dragged by before the woman hurried out of the room. Curious, I snatched her tablet off of the metal styling stand she'd left it on and flipped it over in my hand. I didn't know how to use this thing, but I did learn one thing from it: Stenciled on the back of the black cover read, "Property of Rhea Perrigo, chief stylist, District 5 contingent."

Rhea Perrigo. So she was my stylist – or at least, she was the stylist for "it." That wasn't comforting.

The door creaked open, and I tossed the tablet back on the stand. But it wasn't Rhea coming back in. A hand reached through the door, holding out a fresh blue paper gown. I grabbed it with a "thank you" and hurried to pull it in, eager to dress in _anything_ after hours of having everything bared.

"I'm fine without thanks," a familiar voice said from the other side of the door. "I just lunched with your compatriot. I'm guessing Ms. Perrigo hasn't fed you, or said more than one word to you."

I ripped the shoulder of my gown in surprise. My escort had a way of finding his way everywhere.

"Elan?" I said. "I'm half-naked."

"Only half," he said, shoving the door open and walking in with a tray full of steaming food. "Besides, I'm not so interested in your body as your stylist is. She won't be back for a while. Every year, the stylists take an hour or two for alterations to their designs. You should eat."

I wrapped my arms around my waist and eyed the food. "What is it?"

"The best of District 11," said my escort, taking a seat in one of the stylist chairs. "It wasn't cheap, so hopefully I'm making a good bet on you and Glenn. He wasn't very receptive to my words, but he did at least take my food. It's one thing I can do."

"Is he alright?" I said, taking my tray and picking at an orange. "He's quiet all the time around me."

"Oh, he's quiet around me, too," said Elan. "But I've come to…well…"

He scratched his nose and looked down. "I understand where he's coming from. My father was a Peacekeeper, after all."

"What?"

"If you win the Hunger Games, I'll tell you all about my story," he said. "But your story matters more at the moment. You'll be happy to know that your showing back in District 5 has made you one of the worst candidates on the betting boards. Last I saw two hours ago, your odds were twenty five-to-one."

I gulped. "I…I don't really know –"

"It's not a bad thing. The favorites draw the attention early, but people grow tired of the same old, same old winning every year. The real supporters of the Hunger Games love surprises. The golden boy or girl isn't a surprise. Perfection is boring. Entertainment is from the underdogs, or the cowards, or the villains, or the monsters. They all have much better stories than the perfectionists have."

He lowered his head. "Although, I think Ms. Perrigo has something planned for you tonight that will stand out. Something shocking, even."

"Shocking?"

"Play on words. Nobody with any class wants to see naked tributes out there tonight."

Elan leaned against the wall, his eyes half-closed yet still staring at me with a force much greater than his nondescript image conveyed. "I won't be able to see you again before tonight's parade, so work with the image you've made. Don't look flashy tonight. Timidity, shyness. You'd be surprised what can endear the hearts of the Capitol's vainest and wealthiest, and if we're looking for a surprise in the Games, you'll set up a nice contrast to a survivor in the arena. It's all an act."

"I don't know anything about the arena," I said, twisting my hands in my lap. "I just…I've seen the old Games, but that's it."

"Well, then that's something you'll need to work on," said Elan. "Your mentors will help you through skills, but you need to think beyond that. Finch and Daud may be good at what they do, but they're humans. Ms. Perrigo will help you tonight, but those two will help you through the arena. If you want to better your odds, you'd do best by making them want you to win."

"Don't they already?"

"Finch is a smart woman. She'll pick sides strategically, and as long as you show some initiative, you'll be fine in her book. But Daud is a tougher nut to crack."

"Like he really does a lot," I scoffed, hiking my knees up to my chest. "He's said as many as words as Rhea."

The tips of Elan's lips twitched. "Words might not be his thing, but gaining sponsorships are."

"Who would give him money?"

"I won't spill his secrets, but victors go to lengths far greater than those taken by you or me," said Elan. "Another story for a later date. But Daud is quite good at his job. If I were Finch, I'd tell you that he's one of the best chances you have at improving your odds in the arena. "

Elan got up and brushed off his pants. "I'll get going before Ms. Perrigo comes back. You listen to your stylist today, and you stick to the path you've made so far. I told Glenn the same thing: If you're serious about going home, everything you do needs to further that goal. You're part of the Capitol now, Terra."


	6. Prying Eyes

What had she done to me?

I winced and glanced down at this…_thing_…Rhea had dressed me in as we rode an elevator down to the floor level of the Remake Center. My stylist must have been a bit more macabre than I thought. She'd covered me from neck to toe in a tight black-and-violet outfit that trailed a thousand string-like streamers behind me. It's as if she imagined me as some sort of shadow demon stepping out of a land of eternal night. I'd nearly gasped when I first saw myself in the mirror, with my eyes hidden beneath heavy dark makeup and my skin streaked with violent purple fault lines.

Whatever this ghoulish outfit had to do with District 5 was beyond my imagination.

"I hope they can do _something_ with my work this year," Rhea muttered as the elevator ground to a halt.

I frowned at my bare feet, covered in vivid violent paint. That didn't sound promising. Elan had stressed building an image for the Capitol, but who was going to throw money Glenn and I's way upon seeing this?

My doubts doubled when I saw my partner. He looked resigned to his fate with drooping eyelids and a wry frown that didn't match at all the bright white-and-violet ensemble he wore. It was as if his stylist had reversed his outfit's colors from mine except for the purple styling, with the bright white jumpsuit that covered Glenn from the neck down contrasting sharply with my own suit.

It didn't help that the cavernous garage of the Remake Center was filled with tributes who looked like far better representations of their districts than we did. A pair of stunningly attractive teens from District 4, each seemingly on the cusp of adulthood, wore aquamarine gowns of shiny scales and sinewy netting. The moving, grinding gears covering the tiny boy and lanky, empty-faced girl from District 3 looked outright dangerous in an impressive way.

What shocked me more down here, however, were all the tributes behind Glenn and I's chariot. So many of them looked as if they'd never sniffed a good meal in their lives. The thin, short boy from District 12 far at the back of the garage, covered in a simple robe smeared in soot and coal dust, could have disappeared into thin air at any time. I was afraid he'd fall into a pile of skin and bones if someone didn't feed him in the next five minutes.

How did that happen? District 5 wasn't a paradise, but most everyone had a bite to eat three times a day and a solid roof over their head, even if it was only sheltering a simple mud brick hovel hewn into the canyon walls. The two kids from District 10, on the other hand, couldn't hide their empty eyes and hollow cheeks under their cowboy outfits.

I'd seen prior Hunger Games on television, and many tributes – particularly once in the arena – hadn't looked especially strong or beautiful. But something about seeing everyone here in person just feet in front of me struck me with morbid curiosity and shock.

"Hey."

I jumped at Glenn's remark. He watched me with a scrunched eyebrow, frowning as he added, "Probably shouldn't stare."

"I was just – just looking at costumes," I said. "Er, outfits. We look stupid."

"Won't matter soon," said Glenn.

What did that mean? I still couldn't figure out my fellow District 5 tribute, but I knew better than to probe. Doubtless he'd push me away, and even if he did open up to me by some chance, I slowly was growing more aware of the situation. We wouldn't be poorly-dressed kids standing around in a garage forever. Sooner or later one of us, at least, would be dead. It was a terrible thought, but I couldn't just ignore my lurking fear of what awaited in the arena for much longer.

I didn't think this dumb outfit would help my chances, anyway.

"Whoa, look at you! You look downright scary."

So much for pushing people away. The girl from District 4 sauntered up to me, her long orange hair swishing behind her. Compared to the kids from the outlying districts, she might as well have been a Capitolian, from her height to her silky skin to her clear, bright green eyes. What'd she want with me?

"Can I touch this?" she said, waving her hand through the streamers on my outfit. "Creepy. You look like you're gonna kill me."

The girl was chatty, that was for sure. I waved my hand in the air as I tried to think up something witty to say, eventually settling on: "I'm…uh, saving that for later."

She laughed, tilting her head back and half-closing her eyes like it was the funniest thing she'd heard in weeks. "I'm not gonna make you mad, then."

I shrugged. "Well…thanks. You probably wouldn't like me when I'm mad."

"God, finally someone wants to talk," said the girl. "Delfin was being so anal earlier."

"Who's –"

The boy from District 4 cut me off with a sharp cry from his chariot. "Tethys, get the hell over here. We're gonna go soon."

The girl, Tethys, sighed and rolled her eyes. "See? He's probably right though. See ya."

She paused after two steps. "What's your name? If I actually see you, it'd be weird just saying, 'Hey, girl,' and all."

The boy, Delfin, I guessed, gave me pause. He looked as if he wanted his partner to have nothing to do with me, and the way he scowled and narrowed his eyes, I got the feeling that _he _was the one who was going to start killing people in the garage. Why was there one of those angry-looking screwballs in every Games?

"Terra," I said, backpedaling towards my chariot. "Just – bye."

_Way to end the conversation on a high note_, I thought. She probably thought I was an idiot. Considering that District 4's tributes trained every year for the Games, however, her partner would probably smash me like a bug if I tried to chat with her again.

_They don't want to talk with you anyway, Terra_.

"Making friends?" Glenn said lazily as I hurried up into our chariot's carriage.

_Funny joke_. "No. She just wanted to look at this thing I'm wearing. She didn't want to be friends."

"She looked like she did."

"She laughed at me."

"She laughed at whatever you said. Gods, you can make friends. You're a decent enough person. You don't have to downplay yourself."

He worried me. It wasn't anything about the Games, no: Something about the way Glenn stared off into the distance as he said that, his gaze unfocused and every facial muscle besides his mouth still as a statue, prickled my skin.

"Glenn, are you okay?" I asked, abandoning my quest to push him away before the arena.

"I'm a little hungry."

"I mean about the Games. Back when you said you were going to volunteer…"

"Forget that. Just shut up about it."

"What?"

The garage's great iron doors creaked open and stopped me before I could get angry at Glenn's rebuke. I forgot all about the two from District 4 and Glenn's problems in a split second. As soon as our chariot lurched to a start, my outfit transformed from gloomy to terrifying.

Lighting spilled down the strands behind my dress. Violet, crackling electric snakes hissed and spat with sparks that bounced on the ground behind our chariot. I nearly jumped off and pulled my clothes off right there and then, and seeing Glenn's outfit doing the same thing didn't comfort me.

"Gah!" I yelped, pawing at my outfit.

Glenn grabbed my hand. "Just effects," he said. "Nifty."

"I don't want to get electrocuted!"

"We're supposed to get killed later, not now. It's just an effect. Power. Electricity. Y'know."

"It doesn't look like that back home!"

"Yeah, people are stupid. Just sit tight. Well, stand tight."

Rhea could have at least told me my dress would light up like a storm cloud! Every two seconds I glanced back at the sparking, crackling strands behind me, afraid the lighting would creep up my neckline and jolt me halfway down the avenue rapidly growing in front of us.

The scene out on the street shocked me even more.

Ten thousand – no, a hundred thousand – spectators dressed in every color in the rainbow shouted and screamed, like one superorganism smiling and applauding the show. The hulking towers lit up in their neon lights, the white spotlights shining off of the mountaintops around the Capitol, the baritone roar of the crowd as each new chariot rolled out into view – it all threatened to knock me off our carriage in sheer overwhelming awe.

I couldn't smile, couldn't wave. My breath caught in my throat and I looked up at the imposing Training Center rearing up before us in a stupor. Everything here was supersized, from the buildings to the cheers of the crowd.

For a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe some of those cheers were for me.

I hardly heard the words of the tiny men up on a high platform as the chariots circled the end of the avenue. Everything had turned into a blur by then, a great, gray haze that pounded me endlessly with a hundred decibels. My legs wobbled. I'd forgotten we were even on screens across the entire nation now, not just contained here in this little bubble world that I'd already lost myself in. Would my brother even recognize me in all this?

The thought sobered me as our chariot wheeled towards the gaping maw of the Training Center ground floor. This whole great cacophony had swept me up so fast that I'd barely even recognized what was going on any more. We were still in the Hunger Games. _Keep your head on straight, Terra_.

Right. I squeezed my eyes shut to clear my head from the haze and smoky residue left behind by countless fireworks.

Tethys and Delfin chatted like good friends in the chariot in front of us. So much for animosity – although when I looked around, I noticed they were the only pair who seemed to enjoy each other's company. The two kids from District 2, a brawny boy with hair the color of ash and a wiry, broad-shouldered girl, had opened up an entire ocean's worth of space between each other on their chariot.

I stared at them as our chariot slowed to a halt inside the Training Center garage. The two from District 2 allied almost every year, along with 1 and 4. If that wasn't the case this year, well…the thought gave me a burst of confidence.

Mentors fanned out around the garage, and Finch jogged up to our chariot as I stepped off the carriage. She had a bright smile on, but when she got closer, I saw creases lining her eyes.

"Good job, guys," she said. Beneath her breath, she added, "Need to talk to your stylists."

I grimaced. "Was it bad?"

"Nah, it's fine," she said hurriedly. "We can work things out. We'll talk about what's coming up in the next couple days when we get upstairs. C'mon. If we stay here too long, we'll let everyone else get a good look at you two. Gotta avoid that."

Glenn made a point of walking on the other side of Finch as we cut a path through the crowd to get to the elevator. Was he that mad about my question? I knew I should've avoided the issue, but I couldn't help but want to know why he was being so elusive.

We beat all the other districts to the elevator at the rear of the giant garage, but we had company before the doors could close. A golden-haired, stunning-looking man slipped his hand inside the doors before they could close, flashing a smile of perfect white teeth at Finch before ushering in a pair of tributes after them. From the girl's long, fluffy blonde hair to the boy's lean muscles to their gaudy emerald dresses, I could tell who they were: District 1.

"Just one floor. We can share," their mentor said, sliding up next to Finch. She eyed him with a frown and scooted away. "Not having much fun?"

A massive hand slammed the inside of the elevator as the door started to close again. In strode Daud, reeking of some flowery-smelling perfume and clutching a stick of something meaty in his hand.

The District 1 mentor snorted.

"What?" Daud snarled as the doors closed.

"What? Nothin'," the other man said.

"Whole lot of nothin' comes dribbling out of your lips every time I run into you."

The other mentor crossed his arms and grinned. As the elevator stopped after a floor, he said, "Funny guy. Wish you had a younger mentor with you. Finch is a bit old for me."

He waved as the door closed. Daud spat on the ground and said, "Gloss thinks he's so damn special. Goddamn bootlicker."

"The point is not to draw too much attention," Finch sighed.

"We could try something different," Daud said.

"No," she replied. "You see those two from 2? They looked like they wanted to kill each other. Maybe it was just a passing thing, maybe not. Either way, we can let that boil over and see what's what. Better if they drum up tension against each other. Maybe the usual volunteer alliance is only five rather than six this year. Any little advantage is good for us."

I felt proud of myself for guessing that as well. Finch had a point: I didn't exactly want to become everyone's top target.

"Wasn't paying much attention to 2," said Daud.

"Did you pay attention to anything?" Finch said.

"You know damn well what I was doing."

Finch fell silent. I didn't know what the other mentor had meant, but given the awkward quiet that dominated the elevator as it rose the last two floors to our compartment, I felt it was another subject I should avoid.

"Home sweet home," Daud muttered as the doors opened.

I caught a gasp in my throat. The fifth floor was a sprawling apartment, filled with gleaming chrome furniture in the dining room, shiny wood paneling on the walls from floor to ceiling, and enormous glass windows that opened up a look onto the busy Capitol streets below. It made my fancy bedroom on the train look like a pauper's quarters.

"You two," Finch said, turning to Glenn and me. "Go get washed up; take whatever bedroom you want. We'll take it easy tonight and go over the serious stuff tomorrow morning. Off you go."

Glenn just nodded. He hadn't said a word since our outfits had lit up, and I felt guilty as we trudged down the hall. As soon as we were out of Finch's and Daud's sight, I stopped him.

"Glenn, I –" I started, stumbling over what to say. "Look, I want us to be okay with each other."

"What?" he said.

_Lord, I'm going to sound like an idiot_. "If there's something bugging you, you can tell me. We only have a little time until the arena, and we don't really have anyone else."

He curled his lip and furrowed his brow. "Why would I want to do that?"

"I'm trying to help. Something's bugging you."

"Don't try to get in my head. Don't act like Finch."

"What is your problem?"

"Oh, yeah, yell at me for having some privacy. Great."

Heat flushed my face. I wanted to know more about him, but at the same time, I wanted someone to be there who I could talk to – someone who wasn't just a mentor in what could be my last days. Glenn's aloofness only made me press harder. "I just want to talk! You don't have to be all angry about it."

"No, you're just really nosy," Glenn said. "Is this what you and your friend were talking about when you were spying on me in the canyon yesterday before the Reaping?"

I swallowed hard. _Whoops_.

"You want to help?" he said, opening the door to the nearest bedroom. "Help yourself and stay the hell out of my life. You wouldn't like what's in it, anyway. Go have fun prying into someone else's mind before we both die, Terra."

He slammed the door in my face. My Hunger Games were not off to a good start.


	7. Witness

_**+ Huge shout-out to ArtemisCarolineSnow and Radio Free Death for the great reviews, and thanks to everyone reading and taking an interest in the story! You guys are the best.**_

**/ / / / /**

The Capitol was an artistic masterpiece at sunrise.

The golden mountain sun had just crested the rocky peaks surrounding the city when I awoke. Soft sunlight bathed the Capitol's wide roads, forcing back the shadows from the night into shady alleyways and lonely side streets. The firefly lights of the skyscrapers blinked off one by one. Late-night stragglers, little more than sluggish ants from my window on the fifth floor of the Training Center, dotted the avenues here and there, but at this hour, the city was at rest. It was too early for the business of running a nation, too late for the revelry that buzzed on every bright corner and in every smoky back room throughout the night.

I wasn't happy to be here, to be facing the Games and an inevitability that awaited me – either victory or death. It horrified me. But this city…this city was an amazing place, even with the shadow that hung over it for a few weeks every summer.

The Training Center was quiet. I was glad for this kind of silence, and not the awkward lull that had hung over the dinner table last night between Glenn and me. I blamed myself for that: He might have overreacted, but maybe I shouldn't have pushed to find out his secrets. In these kinds of times, who knew what was going through his head that a stranger didn't need to know.

Besides, I couldn't focus on that today. Today was training day, and today the reality of the Hunger Games stepped into the spotlight.

Something rustled out in our apartment's common area as I stepped out of my bedroom, clinging a velvet-soft robe around my shoulders. I wasn't the only one up at this hour.

I shuffled down the hall, careful to stay quiet. Finch's snores reverberated from the room to my left. I didn't stay unheard for long, however.

"If you're trying to sneak up on me," Daud called from the commons. "You could use a little practice."

My mentor faced the window out in the den, tightening the straps of a leather vest around his waist. Golden sunlight reflected off of his bald head, and his beard looked far more ragged than it had been the day before. He turned towards me, and from the way the navy blue bags under his eyes carved shadowy depressions into his weathered face, he looked as if he'd barely slept.

He pursed his lips and yanked on a strap. "It wasn't too bad."

"I wasn't trying to sneak around," I said, flopping down on a couch and lying my head on a pillow.

"Maybe you should try. You know the best way to kill a man? Make sure the first time he sees you is when he takes his last breath."

Daud swore as he tightened another shoulder strap on his vest. I wanted to ask him questions, questions about what he was doing, what _I _needed to be doing, and so many other things, but after Glenn's chilly response, I held back. Elan told me to get him on my side, and I wouldn't jeopardize that to satiate my curiosity.

"Training today," said Daud, pulling on a tight-fitting shirt over his vest. The number seventy-two was emblazed in scarlet on the shirt – his original Games. "Listen to what Finch tells you. She knows her stuff. But don't trust one of those bloodsuckers from District 1 if they try to talk to you. Tell the boy that so he knows, too."

"What about 2 and 4?" I murmured, picking at a loose thread in the couch cushions.

Daud pursed his lips and flexed an arm. "Nothin' wrong with them."

"Aren't they all trained for this stuff? Win at all costs, and whatever?"

"Sort of. They ain't bad people, though."

"So what, the people from 1 are?"

Daud laughed. "Yeah, that's right. Gloss thinks he's man's gift to the Sun, the Moon, and the Flame. Little bastard hasn't worked a day since he won."

That my mentor was spiritual at all surprised me much more than his bias against District 1. I knew he'd turned to alcohol since his victory, what with his coming into my family's cantina every other day, but imagining the brawny man sitting in the pews of the Church of the Triad back home struck me as odd. It wasn't my thing, but for the poor and downtrodden of District 5, the church was a ray of light in the darkness – literally, according to their words. Where did my mentor fit in with that?

"Are you leaving before breakfast?" I asked as Daud tromped off towards the elevator.

He nodded. "Unlike Gloss, I'm actually going to work. Hopefully I'll be back by dinner."

My mentor disappeared with the elevator car, leaving me with more questions than answers. I supposed he was getting a jump start on gathering sponsorships, as Elan had said, but who in the Capitol was up this early? It looked as if the man was getting ready for battle, rather than preparing for entertaining clients and the like. Somehow, the heavy leather vest didn't seem like the city's latest fashion trend.

Finch wandered out a half-hour later, looking as if she'd slept in fits and starts herself. "Couldn't sleep?" she said, slumping onto a chair across from me. "At least it's a nice morning."

"I slept fine," I said. "I just get up early."

She smiled. "Well, that's a good habit to have. You get more done when the sun's up. Did Daud leave already?" When I nodded, she sighed and dropped her head back onto the cushions. "Great."

"Elan told me he's good at getting sponsors," I said, my curiosity finally getting the better of me."

"He is. I worry about him sometimes, but…right now, we need to worry about you and Glenn a little more."

Finch shifted in her seat and rubbed the back of her neck. She grimaced and said, "Look, Terra, there's something you should know about the Games. I talked to Glenn about this last night after you'd already gone to sleep and he was still tossing and turning, but…the kids who win don't often win by accident. There's some luck in the Games, but there's more that determines who wins."

"It's just the last person standing," I said. "It always is."

"Yeah, but how that person comes to be…is…the Capitol needs something out of every winner, Terra, and our current Head Gamesmaker, Galan Greene, understands that better than most people. Everyone who wins has a certain image around them. A brand, if you will. One thing above all else they're known for, something that can sell to the Capitol crowds. If I mention, say, Finnick Odair on the streets to a random person, they'll know him for his charm, the whole Bad Boy package. He was like that in the Games, too, and the audience ate it up. It's been like this forever."

"Elan mentioned something about that."

"Right, he's in all the right circles. He won't be back 'til this evening, by the way. But that's why I wasn't happy with your outfit yesterday. It didn't really go with what we're trying to do with you."

"What's that?"

"Look, I'm guessing you don't know how to swing a sword, or that you've been striking out into the desert and shooting rattlesnakes with a bow or anything in your free time back home. So, instead of painting you as a warrior or fighter, I want you to know these Games better than anyone else. You need to keep an eye on the other kids down in training today, even more than you need to go around the stations learning things. Learn who everyone is. Watch what they do. If Elan, Daud, and I can make an image of you as the cleverest tribute in the field and the one to outthink everyone else, we have a solid foundation to work with."

I bit my lip. _Not sure how well that's going to work_. Sure, I did well at school, but outsmarting kids – some of them of them trained for this – in the arena was a whole different beast.

"I don't think I'm really that smart," I said.

"That doesn't matter. It just matters what people believe."

"They're not going to believe it if I can't do it!"

"I know it's hard, but you have to try. It's more than just any normal year, Terra, it's…" said Finch, pausing and letting her voice trail off. "Most of the other mentors aren't thinking like this, but there's a new leader of Panem, and he's not like the old President Snow. He's serious and isn't so into the Capitol spirit of the Hunger Games, according to Elan. If the Head Gamesmaker wants to impress the new Snow, he won't back some sex symbol or brute as a winner. He'll back someone who can prove themselves useful."

That last line shot an icy arrow into my heart. _Useful_. Forget mentoring tributes and living happily in the Victor's Village. I need to have a _use_.

"Wouldn't someone pretty or strong be more useful?" I said, glowering at my feet and digging my chin into my knee.

"No," said Finch. "That'd sell to the crowd, but clever can sell, too. It worked for me. And better, someone who's observant, someone who can understand their challengers well, is someone who a new president just six months into his reign needs."

She rubbed a hand over her mouth and gazed off into dead space. "I know it won't be easy, Terra. This never is, and this year's so much different because of the circumstances here in the Capitol. The Games are going to test you. The Gamesmakers are gonna throw you through every kind of hurdle you can imagine. But if you and Glenn can just stick with us, well…maybe we have a better shot than usual this year of getting one of you two home in one piece."

I didn't know how much of a shot that was, but I took her advice to heart when I rode the elevator down to the bowels of the building to begin training a few hours later. Without the makeup and gaudy outfits of the day before, so many of the other kids who filed down into the cavernous concrete gymnasium looked even worse for wear. They weren't killers or fighters. I knew the Games were necessary, and I knew I had to fight for myself now – but how was I supposed to kill someone like the skinny, olive-skinned boy with a "3" patch stitched onto the arm of his ash gray training uniform, a worried look plastered on his face as a Gamesmaker read out our rules for the day?

The Games looked a lot different up close. When the dandelion-haired boy from District 1 trotted off to the archery station and hit a target's bullseye with his very first shot, the grandeur of the day before didn't seem so grand.

_Keep your eyes open, Terra. Watch. Learn._

A station dedicated to camouflage sat ignored at one end of the gym as my fellow tributes rushed off here and there to spear-throwing stations or shelter-making lessons. I fought my instinct to run off to one of the more practical stations and shuffled over to the camouflage set-up, where a stooped attendant with graying hair and a black circle tattoo on his cheek seemed surprised by his visitor.

"Ah!" he yelled, nearly knocking over a carton of thick scarlet goop. "Someone with half a brain this year! Where you from, girl? Ah, 5. They need to color-coordinate you guys, or something. So, your mentor tell you to learn how to blend in?"

I gave him a half-smile and shrugged. "Something. I just want to learn."

"And a good choice of learning," said the instructor. "When all those schmucks piss their pants in a fight, you'll be avoiding it entirely. When the first time your opponent sees you is when he's taking his last breath, you're a winner."

_Funny. Same thing Daud said_.

The station teacher turned out to be much more than I'd estimated at first glance. Not only did he teach me the value of smearing mud on my pale skin in the dead of a dark night, but he also pointed out ways to stay quiet and stick under the shadows when another tribute was on the prowl. More and more, I was getting the impression that caution, not the fighting talent that had helped so many victors before, would be my best ally in the arena.

But I was also keeping my eyes on what else was happening in the gym. The two models from District had buddied up to the lithe girl from District 2, but their alliance had stopped there. Delfin, the boy from District 4 I hadn't liked, kept pulling Tethys away from anyone she tried to talk to after a minute or so. While they stuck together, the looks Delfin kept throwing the way of the District 1 kids told me that they weren't on such good terms.

Then there was the boy from District 2. For such a powerfully-built kid who looked much more like an adult than a teen, he sure didn't show off. Through the first hour I was working on camouflage, the boy stuck to tying intricate knots at a station halfway across the gym. Finch was right about this year's group from the favored districts – they weren't as close as I'd seen in past years' Games.

But given the pinpoint accuracy the boy from District 1 fired those arrows with, or how Delfin swung a spear around his body like it was an extra arm, I didn't know how much that would improve my odds.

**/ / / / /**

The mosquito buzzed off into the salty morning air, its annoying hum lost amid the crashing of waves against the dock.

It wasn't actually a mosquito, of course. The miniature drone only looked like a tiny insect zipping around aimlessly in the warm Pacific breeze. Buried in its steel face was a camera and a recorder, picking up everything that a snoop would need to know.

Arrian de Lange fit the bill.

He was a man who fit in well in District 4, with his long strawberry-blonde hair and his loose turquoise shirt that hung limply around his trim waist. With his iron biceps and a small scar running along his chin, he looked like any young fishing hand on one of the great boats that hauled in the district's daily bounties. He, however, had another catch in mind: Information. His client in the Capitol had offered to pay well for incriminating evidence on one of Panem's brightest stars.

Arrian plugged a pea-sized speaker into his ear and pulled out a tablet computer from his backpack. A few button presses brought him a clear video feed from his drone as it buzzed past an iron gate. The words "Victor's Village" flew past, and two dozen two-story houses, shining with fresh white paint unblemished by the salty air, jumped up in the video.

Right on target. The mercenary had programmed his bug to find a very specific victor in the Village, one who had avoided ever returning to the Capitol as a mentor. Her husband, and now her son, weren't so fortunate.

Even in her early forties, Annie Odair was still a beautiful woman in a haunting sort of way. Her bushy hair had thinned and spider web creases lined her forehead, but her green eyes still brightened as a holographic screen in the Odair household's den sprung to life with a flurry of bright dots of light. Arrian leaned forward over his monitor and wedged his ear speaker in just a bit further as Finnick Odair's face cleared on the monitor.

_It's about time to go about your business, isn't it, Finnick?_ Arrian thought.

"Hi," Annie said, folding her hands in her lap. She didn't smile. She looked anything but happy to see her husband a thousand miles away. "Is everything going alright?"

If Annie still had hints of beauty, her husband had clung to every speck of the handsome face that had won over the Capitol. His bronze hair looked just as it had when the victor had stepped out of the arena more than thirty years ago.

"I've only got a few minutes to talk," Finnick said with a shrug. "Tell me about you, first."

Arrian groaned. He let his eyes wander about the empty dock as the two victors delved into idle chatter for a minute. It was quiet out here in the absence of the trawlers that had left before the sun had risen. He had only the long green grasses above the beach and the cawing seagulls fighting for food on the dock's wooden planks for company.

"Finnick," said Annie in a worried voice, bringing Arrian back from his sightseeing. "Are you…are they still…"

Finnick frowned and sighed. "Yeah. I'm scheduled to meet with someone in a half-hour. That's why I'm making our chat quick today."

Annie let out a sob. "Hey," Finnick said, putting on his best attempt at a smile. "It's alright. Annie, it's alright. It happens every year. I'm gonna come back soon. We're gonna be fine."

"I know," she said, cupping a hand over one ear. "It's just…they're making Drake do it too, aren't they?"

Finnick's face sagged. For a split second, he looked every year of forty-five. "It's his first year…"

"No!"

"Annie, I tried. I tried to get them to leave him alone, but –"

"He's our son!"

"I know, I know –"

Annie cupped her hands over ears and leaned forward, rocking back and forth on the couch. _Give me something_, Arrian thought. _Come on_.

"I hate them for what they're doing," Finnick admitted. "All this crap and they're bringing Drake into it, too. I'd tell everyone in the Capitol to take a hike, the idiot Gamesmaker and the new President and everyone, but I can't fight them Annie."

"Why not?"

"Annie, we've talked about this."

She clenched her eyes shut and nodded, tears pouring down her cheeks. "I know. I just want to leave. I want to leave this place. All of it."

"Annie…"

"I just want to leave."

Finnick glanced over his shoulder. "I've got to go. We'll talk tonight after everyone's asleep, okay? Just hang on. Everything's gonna be fine, I promise."

_It sure will be_, Arrian thought, grinning and reeling the drone back from the Odair living room. Finally! He'd wanted for Finnick to say something dumb, something that could rile up the more paranoid of the Capitol. Bingo. He could play with that footage and make it sound worse than it did, given how much he'd already picked up from Annie and Finnick's conversations over the past two days.

_Why they don't just bug their houses all the time is beyond me_, thought the mercenary as he slid his tablet back into his pack. _A few high-up idiots are suspicious about some of the victors? You shouldn't need me to dig up some dirt on them._

"What are you doing?"

Arrian spun. A little girl watched him from twenty feet away with wide green eyes. She clutched a miniature wooden fishing rod in one hand, her other playing with her short auburn hair. Had she seen any of that?

One couldn't take chances. "Just preparing a gift. You want to come see it?" asked Arrian. When she hesitated, he ushered her over with one hand. "Come closer. I'll show you."

He slid his other hand behind his back as she trotted nearer. One hand extended an invitation, but his other closed around a leather grip.

"Right down here," Arrian said. "See?"

In one rapid move, he snatched the girl by her shoulder and thrust a knife into her neck. Her eyes bulged and she choked on blood, gurgling her shock. Arrian shoved her off the dock and into the water before her eyes glazed over. She was as good as dead.

Unlike the Hunger Games, these games couldn't afford witnesses.


	8. Anxiety

_**+ Big thanks to lemonofweirdness for the review/fave/follow!**_

_Grey-eyed District 10 girl knows her plants. Black-haired District 7 boy is stronger than he looks and is good in a fistfight. Skinny District 3 boy…ah, shit._

I rubbed my eyes. Not a day and a half into training and already I was stumbling over what the other kids knew and at which stations they'd struggled. How did Finch expect me to keep tabs on all of them? Outside of Glenn and the two from District 4, I didn't even know their names.

My own attempts to pick up skills hadn't gone so well, either.

My palms chafed after my fourth failed attempt to start a fire. The wooden dowel I'd been drilling with to coerce an ember out of a wooden plank hadn't done much besides wear my arms out. A sad little hole in the wood looked back at me with the same sort of emptiness gnawing away at my self-confidence. I sat down in frustration, watching across the gym as the girl from District 1 launched a javelin with perfect aim into a plastic dummy's stomach thirty yards away. She made it look easy time after time. Why couldn't I even start a damn fire?

"Keep trying," said the station's instructor, a middle-aged woman with deep violet hair who smelled of an unpleasant cross of fresh flowers and stale milk. "You'll get it."

I gritted my teeth and ground the dowel into the wood for a fifth time. Somehow, this seemed a lot easier back home using a lighter or matches. Maybe the Cornucopia in the arena would be filled with matches, or the arena itself would be on fire. Then I wouldn't have to be doing this inane drilling motion over and over again, trying to spark a stupid little ember that probably wouldn't survive more than a few seconds.

Great. Great job, Terra. Now I could go freeze to death before someone came and killed me in a few days. Great.

I glanced over at the hollow-cheeked boy from District 12, who had no trouble getting a steady trail of smoke wafting from his chunk of wood a few feet away. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his calves looking no thicker than the small log he was sawing away at, but malnourishment sure hadn't stopped him from mastering a skill I was failing over and over again at.

After a few futile minutes, I laid my stick down and grabbed my forehead with both hands. This was not working. Even Glenn seemed to be getting the hang of training: Across the gym, my district partner actually smiled as he boxed with a sparring instructor. I hadn't even tried getting a hand on a weapon unit, particularly as the bigger volunteer kids had dominated those stations the past day. I was running out of time and running into a wall.

The boy from District 12 looked over with a worried expression. Frustration was pushing me close to tears, and I looked away before he could get any ideas. He probably thought I was an idiot, nothing more than something to be pitied. _Look at her,_ I imagined him thinking. _She won't last the first day. I hope someone puts her out of her misery quickly or she'll end up one of those girls who cries for their parents in short little pants while starving to death._

"That's not really a great way to do that."

I froze. He'd walked over with his own sticks and sat down next to me, laying them out beside my own poor attempts. "See?" said the boy, holding his sawing stick perpendicular to his log. "When you rub it like you were doing, it makes it harder. If you just saw it like this it's simpler."

My voice caught in my throat as he furiously rubbed away at his wood, easing a wisp of smoke out in less than a minute. I was thankful for the help, but I felt my face grow hot and my chest tighten. What if the kids from District 1 were right behind me, watching and picking me out as an easy target? _She can't even light a fire; she needs the skinny boy from District 12 to help her…_

"It's easy," the boy said, missing my embarrassment. "Just takes a lil' getting used to."

I nodded, but I couldn't meet his gaze. I didn't know why this always happened to me. Any hint of friendliness sent my blood pressure skyrocketing, and I wanted nothing more than to go running for a little corner to be alone.

The boy from 12 wasn't getting it. "I'm Ember," he said. "You're from 5?"

I bit my tongue. "Yeah. I'm Terra, but I should go. Training and stuff."

"Wait, I didn't mean to push you."

"No – I mean, thanks. But I need to go. It's almost time for stuff. Lunchtime. Almost."

I blushed as I hurried away towards the center of the gym, feeling his empty eyes watching me my retreat. At least I'd been right about lunch: I only stood around watching the boy from District 2 fiddle with a fishing rod for three or four minutes before the cafeteria bell sounded. I bolted out of the gym as fast as I could go, slipping through the wide doors to the barren, concrete-walled cafeteria ahead of the rest of the kids and filling a plastic plate with glistening orange sweet potatoes before the two tiny kids from District 9 had even walked in.

At least in here I could sit alone and feel like everyone else. Only a few of the other tributes had company as they settled down at the sterile-looking beige tables scattered around the cafeteria. Tethys and Delfin chatted nonstop near the doors, and a single table over, the two immaculately made-up kids from District 1 laughed at some inside joke. I was surprised the girl from 2 hadn't joined them, considering that I'd seen her tagging along in that budding team over the past day and a half.

She wasn't looking to talk alliance plans, it seemed. Instead, she'd brought trouble with her into the cafeteria.

The girl gripped her meat-and-vegetable-loaded plate as if it threatened to jump away from her, and she argued with her district partner with a harsh hiss and narrowed eyebrows. "Why do you keep doing this? Enobaria said, like, three or four times to stick together," she snarled at the brutish boy. "I don't know why you have to be so goddamn antisocial."

"Just leave me alone," said the boy. He wasn't angry. From the way he frowned with just the corners of his mouth, he looked like a wolf trying to avoid a yipping Chihuahua biting at its heels.

"I've tried inviting you to join us," the girl said, freeing a hand so she could swing it through the air as if she were swatting flies. "I tried getting you to show off a bit. You're a big guy. Why do you have to just sit there at the dumb stations like you're bored?"

"I don't want to do that other stuff."

"You're gonna die. I'm not gonna help you if you keep this up. No one's gonna leave you alone in the arena."

"I don't want your help, neither."

"Why don't you get over yourself, Acheron?"

"I just wanna be left alone."

The girl sneered at him and dashed off to join the two from District 1. I felt a pang of sympathy for the boy, Acheron, as he watched her go, his shoulders slumped and his wide mouth agape. After a few moments, he lumbered off to a table in the far corner of the cafeteria, leaning over a steaming pile of mushy green vegetables and picking at his fingernails from time to time. He'd volunteered, but I didn't think he'd done it for the same reason that the other five from the favored districts had.

I didn't get time to dwell in my thoughts, however. I hadn't expected anyone else to approach me after I'd run away from Ember, but especially not the one person I'd butted heads with here in the Capitol: Glenn.

My district partner tossed his empty plate onto the table and flopped down into the seat across from me, leaning on his elbows and letting out a long sigh. "This is kinda stupid," he said after a pause. "Who the hell learns things after two or three days of trying them out for the first time?"

I didn't answer. It was a good question – he had a habit of seeing past the face of the Games, really – but I wasn't ready to start talking considering that we'd barely spoken since after the parade.

"Are we really gonna do this?" he said. "I probably shouldn't have gotten pissy at you couple nights ago, but this has all been a bit much. Someone trying to get to know me was a little weird."

"This is probably a bad time to do that," I whispered.

"Guess so. You sprinted away from that kid at the fire station like he had measles. No use getting to know him, huh?"

I curled my left hand into a fist under the table. "I don't know if making fun of me is any better than getting pissy."

"Just sayin'. He looked like he was trying to help. Every time I look over at you in the gym, you're just standing around at stations and going through the motions, looking around and watching everyone else. I mean, I get this is all a joke too, but you're being really obvious about it."

"Finch told me to watch everyone."

"Oh, so this is a dumb strategy."

"I'm pretty sure Finch won because she's smart, not because she's dumb."

"I said the strategy was dumb. Didn't call her dumb. C'mon Terra, standing around and watching people? Do you think you're gonna remember everyone once we're out of this place and into the heat of the moment?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

"Do you even want to go home?"

"Everyone does."

"Not really," he said, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair almost to the point of falling backward. "Do you really care about home? I mean, what's really waiting for you back in the district?"

"There's just…" I stuttered. "There's…my family and stuff."

"Stuff? You sound really convinced."

"Why are you even bugging me?"

He shrugged and glanced around at the other tributes. "Guess I feel the need to talk, considering that I don't have many more chances to do so. You said you wanted to get to know me. If you're still serious after all this training bull is over, then we can talk. Family and stuff isn't here, after all."


	9. Preparing Tributes

_Five_.

I should've known I'd flub training. I didn't have anything to show the judges during my private session, and making things up on the fly hadn't worked out at all. Finch had done her best to console me, recounting that she'd received the same training score before the 74th Games, but it didn't help me feel better.

_Five_. Cicero Templesmith's stupid grin taunted me as the morning sun crept over the Capitol's peaks, the brilliant yellow-white alpine light shining in through the apartment windows with a certain hardness this morning. The whole audience probably had smirked right alongside him, laughing at the dumb girl who the arena was sure to knock off quickly. This entire dumb strategy of playing under the radar was backfiring in a hurry.

The savory smells coming from the dining room table annoyed me. I didn't feel like eating whatever it was the silent, crimson-robed avoxes were laying out. I didn't feel like listening to Finch's encouragements, or hearing Elan's snide remarks about sponsors. I only felt like going back to my bed and sleeping through the rest of the Games.

As usual, Daud woke before the others. He looked even more ragged than the past few days, his beard ragged and gangly, his eyes underlined with violet half-moons as he flopped down in the nearest dining room table.

"You not eatin'?" he grunted.

I gritted my teeth at the sound of silverware clanking against ceramic plates. Everything was noisier today, like the whole Capitol was out to mock me for my training score. _Five!_

"I'm not hungry," I said, lying down on the couch and propping my head up on a cushion. "Just wanna go back to sleep."

Daud snorted. "Shoulda slept longer, then," he said in the midst of a mouthful. "Can't take a bed for granted these days."

"I'm sure you can," I muttered. I didn't mean to sound so spiteful to him, but I wasn't in the mood for my mentor's bluntness – especially after he'd hardly been around the past three days.

He laughed. "Not really. Not how this life works."

I forced myself up and stumbled towards the table. Daud already had mowed through half a sausage in under a minute and piled on a clump of grapes as I slumped forward on the table. "Getting sponsorships sounds really tough," I sighed, dropping a piece of toast on the floor.

"You have no idea."

_Sure_.

"Think I'll take all these sausages," Daud muttered as Elan strolled in, puffing up his blue hair with one hand while smoothing out his shiny gold shirt with another.

"I could ask for another plate," Elan said. "Of course, you probably don't want to see much of the avoxes today, do you?"

Daud stopped in mid-bite. His lip curled, and he glanced up at Elan with narrowed eyes. "Not that hungry," he said, his teeth clenched.

"I wouldn't be, either. Getting sponsorships is such hard work," Elan said. "I hope you're not too upset over your score, Terra. I came back after you were already asleep, but Finch told me you'd had a little trouble with it."

"Doesn't matter," I murmured, pushing a grape around my plate with my fork. "Nobody'll care anyway."

"Quite the contrary. I'm much happier you received a low score over a high one," said my escort. "I've met a bunch around the city who sympathize with the underdogs. I've stretched the truth a little bit, but when they see you as an underprepared, emotional girl thrown into a grindhouse, well, it provokes some protective instincts."

"'Cuz stretching the truth is such hard work," Daud snorted.

Elan smiled at him. "I like the stories I tell compared to yours. Less grisly."

"Finch said I was supposed to be 'useful,' whatever that means," I grumbled. "So the Gamesmakers would like me more."

"You'd be surprised about what passes for useful here," said Elan.

"Well, I'm not exactly pretty or strong or anything –"

"Sometimes it's the meek and the quiet who hold all the best cards," Elan interrupted. "Someone overlooked can wedge themselves into a dark corner and listen to what everyone else has to say. Knowing what others don't and staying on the periphery of the games of the strong and powerful breeds survivors. It can even lift you up, say, from tribute to victor…or to the most lavish parties thrown during the Games, escorting one of the wealthiest districts in Panem and listening to the drunken conversations of some of the most powerful people in the country."

Elan leaned back and crossed his arms. "Training doesn't mean much for those who take it literally, Terra. Finch figured it out with her own five in training, and I have no doubt you, and Glenn with his six, will figure it out as well."

He knew something about what the Gamesmakers wanted, but I didn't get the chance to ask for details. Breakfast flew by once Glenn and Finch settled down, and my mentors whisked me away for the rest of the morning to sharpen my interviewing skills for the pre-Games festivities the next night. I wasn't looking forward to that. The thought of a sea of twenty thousand probing eyes intimidated me, and the last thing I wanted was for thousands of strangers to laugh at my stutters and awkward pauses right in front of me. It wasn't exactly positive reinforcement headed into the arena.

"Cicero Templesmith doesn't make fun of anyone," said Finch after the tenth or eleventh time I'd brought up that fear. I dug my chin into my knees, sinking into the silky cushions of the living room's widest chair and wishing it would swallow me up. "He learned from old Caesar Flickerman. He brings out the best in everyone."

"Wouldn't be a very good interview if he didn't," Daud added, idly picking at a long, jagged, angry red scab along his forearm.

I shook my head. "I don't know how to sound smart."

"Terra, give yourself a little credit," said Finch. "Alright – alright, let's start a little easier. Just tell me about the kids from District 2. What d'you know about them?"

"What?" I asked. "I mean – they don't like each other. The boy's quiet and wants to be left alone, but I'm pretty sure he's hiding how good he is, since the girl said he volunteered. Acheron, that's his name. He'll survive at least, since he knows his plants and can make a shelter. The girl's brash and is angry at him for not teaming up, and it sounded like she listened to their mentors more. She hasn't done anything but hit things with an axe and talk to the two from District 1. What's that got to do with anything?"

"See? You sounded smart right there," Finch said with a grin.

"No I didn't, I just paid attention to what they were saying and doing in training."

"Which is a pretty good way to play smart in the Hunger Games," said Daud.

"It's just training. Elan said –"

"The hell with Elan," Daud growled. "He's not in this thing. Besides, he told you very well that listening counted for a lot. If you're freezing to death off in the arena and you see a little point of light on the horizon that no one else does, maybe you find somewhere warm to spend the night while everyone else shivers in the snow. Maybe you find food in there and you don't starve. Maybe you survive the night. That's all you can ask for when you're freezing to death. Little details matter."

"I just –" I said, stopping and throwing my hands up. "I don't know."

"Cicero's predictable," Finch said. She leaned over and put a hand on my knee. "I've listened to him for more than twenty years, and he asks the same kind of questions from the same kind of kids. He's worked with the Head Gamesmaker for a while, and he knows all about trying to build an image around each person. If you can let him know from the get-go all the things going on in that head of yours, he'll play along."

It didn't sound like a great plan to me. I was counting on an act I didn't know if I could pull off, and I knew I needed every bit of rapport with the audience I could muster in the arena. With my time left here in the Capitol growing shorter with every minute, the Games themselves swelled up in front of me.

The hell with it. I'd trust my team.

"Alright," I said. "Tell me what I need to do."

**/ / / / /**

The Head Gamesmaker smelled of cheap perfume and expensive wine.

"Why does he call these things at this hour?" Galan yawned, stretching his arms over his head and squinting against the noonday sun's reflection against the hot asphalt in the City Circle. "Barely even midday."

Cyrus rolled his eyes. The Games wouldn't be over soon enough for the man, even if only to avoid the Gamesmaker. "Creon gets up with the sun. He says it's to keep time with the districts."

"Terrible policy."

"It's just a meeting. You can go back to your whoring and games-making right after, or whatever kept you up last night."

Galan smirked as the two men reached the concrete steps to the Presidential Mansion. "One of these nights you'll accept my invitations. They're parties. We're not having secret blood rituals or deciding matters of state at three in the morning."

"I'll take your word for it."

The great golden gates of the palatial building glistened in the sunlight. A pair of Peacekeepers loitered nearby, their guns slung over their shoulders, their postures anything but professional. Neither had to check Cyrus and Galan's identifications: The two men went where they pleased. Creon trusted them, and that was enough.

An anxious gnawing ate away at Cyrus's stomach as he and Galan hurried past the mahogany-lined halls and floor-to-ceiling pastel portraits within the mansion. He wasn't in the mood to admire the opulence of the palace today, or to stop and enjoy the sweet creamy scents that wafted through the air. He had Creon's trust, but men like Galan had a way with getting people to like them. Cyrus wanted to insulate the president from the sea of influences that Coriolanus Snow had navigated so well for fifty years, but the job was a lot tougher in the uncharted waters of a new presidency.

"Why am I even supposed to show up to this?" Galan asked as the two tromped down a wide, tile-floored hallway lined with marble sculptures of past Capitol icons. "Not exactly my line of work, governing and all. I'm a fan of more impulsive priorities. There's a delightful young thing from District 4 this year…"

"Coincidence, I'm sure."

"C'mon, Cyrus. Sometimes good luck strikes in the arena."

"It had better be more than your luck. Let's go in. Your arena can wait an hour."

Cyrus shouldered past the Gamesmaker and pushed open a heavy oaken door. Inside, statuettes of lapis lazuli and red jasper watched over a polished table cut from the heart of some giant spruce in District 7. Crystal windows on the far side of the room diffused the incoming sunlight into the thousands of tiny fractals of light that sparkled on the walls. The golden eagle of the Capitol spread its powerful wings on the great scarlet carpet underfoot, a giant copy of the emblazoned seal in the center of the table. Cyrus knew every inch of the President's Assembly Hall. Coriolanus Snow had come here every day for years, ensuring that he kept his fingers on every heartbeat of Panem's pulse.

That made it all the more worrying that Creon wasn't there.

In his place, a man with long, jet-black hair sat at the far side of the table, his hands folded around a silver pen. He was anything but the Capitol stereotype of a man, with nothing remarkable but his slate-gray vest and arching eyebrows setting him apart from the masses. The woman sitting to his right was something else entirely: With her pale blue-dyed skin, close-cropped white hair and oversized eyes surrounded by lashes the color of ashes, she stood out in a room filled with excess.

Unfortunately, Cyrus knew _them_ all too well also.

"Taurus, Lucrezia," he said, sitting down and propping his elbows up on the table. "Creon running late?"

"He can't make it," the man, Taurus Sharpe, said. It seemed to Cyrus that his mouth hardly moved when he spoke.

"Can't blame the guy," laughed Galan.

Taurus's fingers twitched. "He's booked with Templesmith."

"Why don't we do this later, then," Cyrus said, getting up from his seat. "Wait until he's through with the media."

"We can do our jobs just fine now," Taurus said.

"Creon should have a say –"

"And he will, when I tell him what we've discussed later. Are you finished, Cyrus?"

Cyrus clenched his jaw. He wanted to leave, to slam his chair into the table and walk out, but it wouldn't do him any good. "Fine."

After watching the entire sequence, Lucrezia Bierce folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. "I'm a little concerned about your people, Galan."

The Head Gamesmaker snorted. "What, the crew? Blame the guys who hired them."

"The victors. I don't care about your employees."

"They aren't my people."

"She has a point," Cyrus cut in. "You oversee them while they're here."

Galan frowned and slumped forward. "We're supposed to be one the same side here, Cyrus."

"We are not-"

"The point," Taurus interjected, dropping his pen onto the table.

Lucrezia smiled at the silence that followed. "The point," she said. "Is that I've heard things out of District 4."

Galan perked up. "Me too. Good things."

"About your current victors, not what you're hoping to bed," Lucrezia snapped. "After last year's result, thanks to you, the Odair family is the most influential group of victors in the country. Husband, wife, son – they appeal to the more conservative districts and the audience here in the city alike, not to mention their rabid popularity with their home district. The reports, unfortunately, say that their thoughts about the Capitol are…unfavorable. At best."

"Everyone says things they regret. You don't need a spy network to tell me that," Cyrus grunted.

"Disparaging things? Do you say them?" Lucrezia said, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't play with me. I worked for Coriolanus when you were drooling over schoolwork."

"And Coriolanus Snow let the victors roam about as they wanted, as long as they abided by his terms," said Taurus. "It's a lax policy, especially with the unsettled mood already in District 4. Not every victor's popular in the districts, but plenty are, and we need to keep them on a shorter leash."

_Bastard_. Cyrus knew a power play when he saw one. Taurus wouldn't have dared to put down Snow's ideas when he was still in office, but now that he was dead, criticizing the former president apparently was fair game. The dead were blind and deaf, after all. "They're just people out there," he protested. "Maybe Finnick Odair can command District 4's respect, but most of them just go about their lives. Half of them are ignored by their districts. Look at 12, or 5, or any of the others that don't care so much about the Games. If we piss them off, all we do is irritate our best connections to the districts."

Taurus frowned. "Our best connections, many of who also have combat and leadership experience and who are used to sacrificing for their tributes every year. Don't doubt for a minute where their loyalties lie."

"We could solve that whole problem by picking more impressionable victors," Galan mused, picking at a fingernail. "Ones a bit, uh, more susceptible to what we have to say. Or what we like to do in our free time."

Taurus nodded to him. "See to it. Whoever wins this year, I want them in our pocket."

"Like Gloss and Cashmere?" Cyrus asked.

Lucrezia laughed. It was a soft, tinkling sound that seemed laced with just a hint of poison, as if someone had dropped a dash of hemlock into a fine wine. "Too obvious. Everyone knows those two, and the sentiments in the outlying districts towards District 1 are not kind. Perhaps someone less…ah, expected, would be better for our purposes."

"You'll figure it out," Taurus said to Galan. "And one more thing – I'm not happy about the Odair boy winning last year. Make sure District 4 doesn't make it two years in a row."


	10. Questions

_**+ Big thanks again to ArtemisCarolineSnow and Radio Free Death for the great reviews, and to everyone who's reading and following along! I'm a little torn on this chapter…a necessary one, but eh. Got a lil' stuck. I realize more and more that I cannot describe clothes. I'd be the crappiest stylist of all time.  
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**/ / / / /**

"What'd he ask you?"

Finch dug her hands into her pockets and bit her lip as Finnick Odair struggled for the right words. It had been fifteen minutes since the Head Gamesmaker had dragged her into the Control Center, where the real work of the Hunger Games went on. As a dozen white-jacketed Gamesmakers punched away at holographic computer images in the circular alcove below, Finch loitered against a railing and crinkled her nose against the sterile smell of antiseptic that lingered in the air. It wasn't like Galan Greene to call victors in for individual questioning unless he had something serious on his mind – and it especially was out of place before the Games themselves even began.

Finnick ran a hand through his wavy bronze hair, just tinged with the first strands of silver here and there. Age lines poked their way through his famous face, but to Finch, he was still one of the most handsome victors. Gloss and Cashmere from District 1 may have prolonged their youth into their fifties through the Capitol's many medical marvels, but Finnick had a natural grace and style that defied time's march.

"He said he'd already had a few others in. Haymitch, Phoebe from 10, Johanna, a few others," said Finnick, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door behind him. "Guy seemed frustrated. He was just asking about my district's two kids competing this year. Didn't even ask anything about Drake."

Finch rubbed her arms and frowned. "You think something happened since training?"

"Psh. Like what? Someone forgot to take birth control?"

"C'mon. You've heard the talk. People say the Games are gonna be harsher with the new guy in office. Y'know, set the precedent that new Snow can run things just like old Snow."

Finnick threw up his hands. "Shit if I know, Finch. We won last year, and I'm not dumb enough to ignore that a lot of people around here don't like repeat district winners. My two kids probably got a fighting chance, but…I'm a little more focused on making sure my son actually lives through his first year as a victor."

Finch looked away. She didn't have a family any more, she'd never had nor wanted kids. She couldn't imagine what Finnick had to be feeling – or what he'd felt the year before. It was bad enough seeing two new kids every year struggle through the arena, but watching your own flesh and blood face unforgiving odds while you were nearly powerless to interfere was unfathomable.

"Is he doing alright?" she asked.

"Who, Drake?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, yeah. I mean, everyone expects him to be the second coming of me, but he's handling it pretty well. He's just not really into talking with all the rest of you guys. Nothing personal, you know – _I_ don't think you're a bad conversation when you're not using big words. But he just wants to stay away from the other victors for now. He's always been the independent type. I don't think he's really looking forward to giving an interview on stage with Cicero tonight before all the tributes go up and whatnot, but hey, that's life. That's life in…'bout two hours. Guess we should all get a move on."

Finnick had been in a good mood considering the Games kicked off in less than a day, but Galan Greene was anything but approachable as Finch walked into his office. The Head Gamesmaker kicked his feet up onto a wide metal desk, with a ceramic lamp lying on its side next to them. He cradled a half-empty glass of wine, pushing it up to his lips every thirty seconds or so to take tiny sips as he scrolled through data on a computer hologram. He didn't even look up as Finch sat down.

"Took your time coming in," Galan grunted, swirling his wine around.

Finch scooted her chair back. "I was talking to Finnick."

"Oh, wonderful conversation he was. Didn't even get a 'Hey, thanks again for my son's life.' Guy was totally checked out."

"Did you call me here just to talk about Finnick?"

"Oh, please no. I've had enough conversations about him over the past few days."

Galan rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "I woke up this morning and realized that I don't actually know half as much about this year's tribute field as I thought I did. Considering the circumstances this year, that's…a little concerning. To me. And possibly others."

Finch nearly leapt out of her seat. Was he giving her a chance to sell her two tributes as victors? It was a good thing he hadn't invited Daud instead. "What d'you wanna know?" she asked, playing it cautiously. "You've seen 'em during training and everywhere else they've been in public."

"You've seen them in private," Galan said. "Start with the girl. Terra, that her name? Tell me 'bout her."

_In private_. The Head Gamesmaker clearly didn't have a good grasp on narrowing down his victor candidates this year. Well, if all the power were in her hands, Finch had no problem playing this game. "I mean, she's not really a talker. Terra's good at listening."

"Mmm," Galan grunted. "We'll see tonight. I'm not taking what you say as gospel, Finch. I'm just getting your opinion. I know everyone's biased towards their own."

"Oh, I know. But if she gets a chance – if either of my kids get a chance – in the arena, you'll be surprised. In a good way."

"If they don't do something stupid."

"Terra's a smart girl. She might be timid tonight, but she'll do what she has to in the arena."

"Don't know about that. She sucked in her private session, and in training she often just stood around and watched other people."

"She had the idea to watch the other kids. You know, figure them out before the arena. Learn what they were good at and all."

Galan downed the rest of his wine and eyed her. "_Her_ idea? Or yours?"

"Hers. All her. I was worried more about sponsors."

"Mm-hm. I should just bug the whole damn Training Center next year. Fine, then. Tell me about the boy."

**/ / / / /**

What in the name of Panem had she dressed me in?

Whatever Finch had told Rhea after the parade, it hadn't worked. Rhea had draped me in a long, dark violet gown, the fabric glowing with bright white lines here and there. I'd almost balked when I saw the dark black eyeliner she'd globbed on, and standing in line with the other kids now waiting for my call-up to interview with Cicero Templesmith, I felt even more self-conscious. Glenn had contained a laugh when he'd seen me, and the girl from District 10 kept making faces and staring at me while we waited.

Ugh.

Lights dashed across the crimson curtain veiling the stage as Cicero joked with the audience on stage. He'd already brought Districts 1 and 2 up for interviews, and the man wasn't in any rush: As my stomach threatened to throw up my lunch out of nervousness, the Capitol entertainer performed a skit with his predecessor, Caesar Flickerman, on stage. I wished they'd just hurry up. The crowds, the lights, answering questions in front of every eyeball in Panem – it all made me want to curl into a ball and start bawling uncontrollably.

Tethys from District 4 glanced back and frowned. I thought for a moment that she, too, thought I looked ridiculous until she said, "You got the most creative stylist, huh?"

"The most ridiculous," Delfin, who stood in front of me in line, muttered.

That confirmed it. I did look stupid. "It's, uh, just a dress."

"All glowy," Tethys said, smiling. "It's cool."

It baffled me how Tethys and Delfin were a team. Even though they were from the same district, they looked as far apart as any two tributes here. He folded his arms and leaned against the concrete wall we all lined up against, his expression anything but excited to interview in front of the Capitol and the country. Tethys, meanwhile, looked like a little kid, almost bouncing up and down in her heels as she waited.

The line pushed forward all too quickly. It seemed like a blink of an eye from Tethys's remarks to Cicero shouting, "Give him a hand, ladies and gentlemen – Delfin Ramirez!" It was all going too fast, and when the Capitol attendant in a blue suit at the end of the curtain ushered me forward, I felt dragged along by some invisible force, like a puppet on a string turned this way and that by the salivating audience.

_Bam_.

Light, so much light! Cicero's shouts, the Capitol's applause, the great spotlights that bore down on me like a predator from above – it all blended into a cacophony that froze me on the spot. My throat tightened. _So many people!_ I tried to smile and look excited as I looked out over the sea of faces and gaudy suits and dresses in the audience, stretching up from just a dozen feet away all the way to the rafters of this giant hall. The best I could manage was a half-hearted wave and a little stumble towards where Cicero Templesmith, long green hair, bright orange suit and all, urged me forward to a shiny ivory chair.

"She's shy, folks, give her some space!" Cicero laughed, stretching out a hand towards me and beaming with an ear-to-ear smile. His eyes, shining as if they were gemstones, transfixed me. "Terra, Terra, welcome. Feeling a little overwhelmed?"

I exhaled heavily and slumped down into my seat. _Just a little?_ All these eyes watching my every move in person made me want to curl up into a ball and wake up when everyone had left. "I, uh…yeah."

"Ah, we all do," Cicero said, coming to my rescue without missing a beat. "Caesar remembers, don't you old man? Stumbling all about up here!"

The camera and spotlight raced out to the side stage, where old Caesar Flickerman his face creased with age's fault lines and his sparkling blue suit unable to hide his growing stomach, threw his head back and laughed. I silently thanked the chance to clench my eyes shut for just a moment to collect myself.

"Just like yesterday," Cicero said. "And just a few days ago for you, Terra, the Gamesmakers awarded you a score of five for your training session. Probably not the score you were looking for, so could you shed some light on how that's going to affect you headed into the Games?"

"It won't."

"It won't?"

Ugh. I didn't know why I said that. Stupid, impulsive thing – of course it would affect me! Training mattered; it's what the Capitol broadcasts in every prior Games had always said. But now I'd plowed ahead, and I had to make do with what I'd wrought. "The arena won't be like training," I managed.

Cicero seemed to think on this for a moment, balling up his hand to his mouth as if he were hard in thought. "That's a fair point. Humor us, Terra. With many of the top competitors performing very well, what points the odds in your favor?"

"Everyone has weaknesses," I said. "I just need to take advantage of them. I've seen them."

"Oh? Such as?"

With any other host, I'd have been remiss to expound upon what was going through my head in front of the entire country, or to feel the surge of confidence that jutted up in my guts. But Cicero had a way of talking so smoothly with so few words, his head bowed just slightly like he honestly respected my opinion, that urged me to keep talking. "You had the two from District 2 up here a few minutes ago. They argue a lot. I don't think they like each other."

"Playing spoiler!" Cicero boomed with a bright smile. "Keeping an eye on everyone, have you?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"Well, well. I'm going to have to ask you to hold your secrets so we don't spill _everything_, tonight. And don't we all want to be surprised, huh folks?"

The man knew how to command an audience. Cicero basked in the cheers for a moment before saying, "But we could always use just a taste, Terra. Just a taste. Tell us: What's your secret? What are you holding back that will make you District 5's first victor in more than twenty years?"

A royally stupid idea slipped into my head. Between Cicero's intoxicating aura and the steady momentum I'd been climbing through the interview, however, I couldn't hold it back: "Wouldn't be a very good secret if I told. What's yours?"

Cicero laughed. "Keeping us all in the dark! I like you. I'll tell you what, Terra. My secret is that I cannot _wait_ to see what you have in store for us tomorrow. You're our little mystery, and when the curtain rises, I have a feeling we are going to be impressed. I love it! Ladies, gentlemen, Terra Pike! From District 5!"

**/ / / / /**

It had been a bit different from what Finch and Daud had wanted, but I could work with Cicero's angle. Mystery. Keep everyone in the dark. Secrets. Sure. If that implied that I only needed to talk less, than I could do it. I didn't know if I could show off that kind of confidence in the arena without Cicero there to urge me on, but taking all those eyes in the audience out of the picture would help.

Of course, the issue of twenty-three other kids dying was becoming a much bigger problem now that the Games were less than twelve hours away – and that came into full view that night, when I walked out of my bathroom to see Glenn sitting on my bed, his hands clasped in his lap. The lights were off, but I see just enough of his long face in the lights of the Capitol shining that it was obvious he wanted to talk.

"Didja get lost?" I said, tightening my night gown's waist cord and leaning against the wall. Outside, revelers gathered by the thousands around glowing holograms of some of the favorites – Tethys, District 1's kids, Acheron. I wished I was out there with the celebrations, happy to live with the Hunger Games as an excuse to party rather than a test of endurance. They were having fun, but the reality of what I was in for had settled in.

Glenn shrugged. "Nah. Finch and Daud took off for sponsorship stuff."

"You're not sleepy?"

"I just want to talk. Y'know. Before tomorrow."

I sighed and slumped down onto the floor, pulling my knees up to my chest and leaning against the wall. "'Bout what?"

"What'd you want to do back home?"

"What'd I want to do?"

"Like, you know. Job. Life."

I fretted and looked back out at the Capitol's neon honeycomb. Those streets looked like something I'd like to do right about now. "I wanted to run the dam. Engineering and all that."

Glenn laughed. "Really? I don't even know half a hump about that damn thing. It always just stares down at us all day. I guess it has to do something useful."

"Water pushes the turbines. It makes electricity. Always just seemed cool to me."

"Pff. Kinda geeky."

"You really wanted to talk about the dam?"

He scowled and clenched his hands together. "I didn't really want to be anything."

"Well, I mean, you had plenty of time to figure that out. We're teenagers."

"No, nothing even seemed possible in the future. My parents died way before I ever started picking my nose, Terra. Nobody ever gave two humps about me, and I decided a long time ago that I didn't care, either. I just wanted to get away from all that. That's why I said I would've volunteered. I know District 5's home to you, but it's just a dump in the desert to me. Being trapped there forever is…I'd never make it."

I recoiled. "You want to die?"

"The hell else do I have, Terra?" Glenn snapped, his voice breaking as he said my name. "I got hollowed out when I came into this stupid world. Boo-hoo, huh? At least when I'm here, going into the Games, I'm doing something good for once in my stupid little life. Some other schmuck doesn't have to be here."

I didn't know what to say. "I – Glenn, there's always an option. If either of us win, we have our whole lives ahead of us."

"Oh, swell, to do what?" he said with a smirk. "Get your head out of what you've seen on the broadcasts, Terra. You think Daud's happy? Or Finch? Heh, by the looks of it, Daud's life is a trainwreck just as much as mine has been. I've always been terrible at school. I never would have been much at any of the power plants besides some dumb wrench-puller, and I've never even sniffed money. The hell's the point of going through the motions for forty more years or however long? Nobody's gonna remember me anyway."

"You don't know that. Things can change."

"Yeah, there's a whole helluva lot of evidence pointing to that."

I glanced back out the window. Suddenly, the streets didn't seem so festive. While everyone out there was celebrating, in here, Glenn poured out the contents of a life crushed again and again under a hammer I couldn't understand. It was as if he'd come from some corner of District 5 I'd never seen, a corner where kids were thrown naked into the sand at birth and expected to run. My father and mother had considered me a burden, but at least they'd put a roof over my head and given me the opportunity to have dreams. Glenn had never even gotten that far.

A poisonous little tendril reached into my head. "Why didn't you just jump from the cliff, then?"

He snorted. "Stupid thing. I felt the urge to so many times, but I always remembered what those dumb church guys always said. Killing yourself, oh, it sends you to the Dark Hell. Oblivion claims you and makes you relive all your worst moments forever. Die fighting like the guys back in the Dark Days did and you at least go to the Flame Gates. I didn't even really believe in that crap, but it still stuck around in my head. Hey, if they're right somehow and I die in the arena, at least I don't go to either of the two Hells."

"Glenn, you don't – aren't you even going to fight for yourself in the arena?" I said. It was too late now to convince this boy that he had hope, too late to fight against a life that had forced his face in the mud forever. Still, I tried. "Whoever wins, we still have a chance. I know Daud and Finch aren't the best futures, but it's better than dying."

"Psh. Why even bother caring, Terra? We're both screwed. I know you're a decent girl, but let's face facts."

"Maybe I care about someone who's hurting. You said you were doing something good by coming here. Why can't I do the same? We're all just people here, Glenn."

"Well, go for it. Dunno how much good it'll do you," he said. "It's funny. I wonder what kinda victor you'd be. I don't think you'd be Daud or Finch."

"Maybe I'd just be me, and you'd be you."

"Maybe. Huh. I hope you find out. I'll let you sleep, Terra. Only a little while before we figure out what this whole week of faking it's worth."


	11. I Don't Want to Die

_**+ Once more, big thanks to the ongoing reviews, ArtemisCarolineSnow! Always great to know people are reading and enjoying; shout out also to everyone following along. Time to actually get into the action after ten chapters of lead-up!**_

**/ / / / /**

_Thump-thump-thump_.

My foot tapped out a rapid beat on the floor under the dining table. I had to eat, I had to get something in my stomach, but I couldn't so much as lift my fork off my plate. Last night I'd fallen asleep just fine, but I'd woken up with nervousness and anxiety clawing at my guts. The glistening, bright Capitol, so beautiful and glossy in the early morning light, shimmered away into the nightmarish anticipation of what awaited in the arena in just a few hours.

Mutts? Starvation? Death by the hands of some sicko who lost his mind as soon as he'd stepped foot off his platform? Every little fear that circulated in my head stepped out into the spotlight, squeezing my waning confidence in a vise.

No one spoke. Glenn leaned over a plate of eggs, stirring golden mush about his plate with a knife. Daud occupied himself with food, not even glancing up at either of us as he ate, while Finch clasped her hands and stared off into space as if deep in thought. I was glad for the silence. My gathering storm of emotions was threatening to breach my eyes' levees.

If only I'd learned some sort of fighting. If only I'd gotten a better score. If only I'd _really_ wowed over Cicero and the audience last night…

Something beeped, and Daud glanced down into his lap. "Ride's waiting," he grunted, pushing back from the table and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

My hand shook. My throat closed up as Glenn looked over at me like he expected me to go first. Why couldn't I have a bit more time?

"Alright," I squeaked, biting my lip to hold back the tears I felt welling up in my eyes. "Yeah."

"I'll take you up," Daud muttered. Before I could stumble a few feet, however, Finch grabbed my shoulder and pulled me close.

"You listen," she said. Her hair seemed even brighter and redder than normal as I fought to keep my composure. "Don't you panic, okay Terra? Keep your head in there, take your time if you have it, and think things through. You do whatever you need to, alright?"

I looked down and sniffed. "Alright."

"Good luck," she said, squeezing my shoulder. "Go on, now."

As soon as the elevator doors closed, I fell apart. I knelt down on the harsh metal floor, cradling my forehead in my hands and letting out every last tear that had welled up since I'd woken up. "I'm sorry," I choked, expecting Daud to be frustrated at me. "I'm sorry."

He didn't yell at me, or even just watch me as I slumped over and cried. I heard him punch a button on the elevator, and as the lift jerked to a stop, he wrapped a pair of powerful arms around my waist and pulled me into his steel chest.

"Nothin' to be sorry about," he whispered his voice suddenly so much softer than the harsh grumble I'd gotten used to. "The rest of us should be sorry. We keep standin' by and watchin' as you kids do the hard work. Twenty-four years of it I've stood and watched."

"I don't want to die," I blubbered into his shoulder.

"I know," he said. Daud held me tight and leaned against the wall of the elevator, sighing loud enough that the other floors probably heard it. "I didn't either. Twenty years, more, of kids who don't want to die. I don't even have the right words to say anymore. I don't even know if you'd want to hear them."

I looked up. Something had died in Daud's eyes: For a brief moment, he looked as if someone had hollowed out a spark from deep inside, leaving a cold void in its place.

In a second it was gone, the hard man I'd come to understand back in place. His finger hovered over the button for the roof. "I'm just a killer caught up in my job," he said, punching the button and letting me go.

**/ / / / /**

On any average morning, the Capitol streets would be home to few travelers: The weary nightcrawlers who had stayed out too long, the loners, the workers who couldn't afford to sleep in like most people. Not today, however: Today was the Hunger Games, and today _everyone_ packed the morning sun-lit avenues of the shining silver city, salivating over the spectacle to come.

Elan hated this day every year. The District 5 escort didn't mind the crowds – he welcomed them, in fact – but gathering sponsorships meant earning often meager rewards for hard work.

"This might be the best day of the year," said the man who walked alongside Elan through the packed Capitol Forum. Where so many in the crowd looked stunning in glossy, colorful outfits and faces sculpted with perfect coats of makeup, Julian Tercio was anything but a model. His floppy mane of auburn hair hung limply down beneath his ears, with an odd strand here and there dyed a bloody shade of red. He seemed lost in the midst of the latest styles that Elan's brilliant purple tunic embodied so well, instead clad in a simple brown shirt with a black stain running down one arm. "Someone else makes sure all the tunnels are working today. Someone else makes sure all these people can spend to their hearts' content. Someone else makes sure drunken vomit hasn't backed up in the pipes. Bit of a weird thing, having a day all to myself."

"It's called 'leave' in the other offices," Elan mused as the two passed by a vendor hawking electronic gadgets to a crowd of teenagers. "Even we escorts can ask for it, except for the lead-up to today. We have a pool of substitutes who fill in."

Julian scrunched up his face. "Well, all these people never leave, and thus I don't _get_ leave."

"I'm sure if you asked politely they'd give you some heed. You do look after all the unpleasantries of this city."

"Mmm. That'd certainly do it. Imagine all the applause as I stood up in the City Circle and asked, 'Excuse me, but would all several million of you mind holding on to the contents of your bowels today? I need a mental health break.'"

Julian stopped and gazed up at a wide video screen draped high above a scarlet-curtained storefront. Cicero Templesmith seemed giddy to Elan, nearly jumping in his seat out of excitement for the arena's launch in less than an hour. Old Caesar Flickerman, still dying his hair an off-putting shade of chartreuse despite his age, hung with his younger host with ease.

"I suppose I'll be spending all of my money today, rather than the public's," said Julian. "I bet that's what Cicero and Caesar would want me to do. Go, bet away, bet on everyone in the arena except for the one who wins! Of course, you're hoping I just bet on one or two."

"Well, you're not the only one with a job. I just have to do mine today while you're on, well, leave."

Julian shoved his hands in his pockets. "How about we at least sit down if we're going to talk business? Dodging passersby with their necks craned for a better view isn't my idea of fun."

The two settled on a bench at the edge of the Forum, nestled beside a marble fountain in the shade of a trio of palms and overlooked by a colossal, flowering bird of paradise. Twenty feet away, a line snaked towards a gambling booth where real-time odds for all twenty-four tributes invited the lucky, the bold, and the careless to empty their wallets.

"Twenty-four-to-one and twenty-to-one. Not looking so good for you," Julian muttered.

"Just odds," said Elan.

"Well, they're not in your favor. I hope you're not going to give me some little spiel like the rest of them do. Yesterday alone Finnick Odair and old Effie Trinket ambushed me after work, regaling me of the virtues of paying in for District 4."

"I hope you turned them down."

"Politely. Somewhat."

Elan leaned in and lowered his voice. "I heard a good reason for that at your very own party two nights ago. A very drunk Galan Greene told me that District 4 isn't worth much this year."

"I hope you don't expect me to pay you for that. Galan hates districts repeating. Even avoxes probably know that," scoffed Julian.

"Consider it pro bono."

The two paused as Cicero and Caesar bantered back and forth on the screens around the Forum. The host and the analyst had dived into discussing chances of some of the most overlooked tributes in the Games – and perhaps the biggest underdogs.

"Terra Pike. She's from District 5," Cicero said as footage from Terra's interview popped up behind the studio desk. "Any similarities to past tributes we can go on?"

"I'll go back more than two decades for a comparison" Caesar said, raising his eyebrows and holding up a finger. "Finch Rivers. From District 5, also scored a five, also quiet, intelligent, bit of a mystery – and look where she got! Beat out a few of the most physical tributes of the seventies on her way to winning. I remember when she got the jump on Thresh from District 11, right at the height of the Games –"

Julian stuck out his jaw and fretted. "They say Effie's the most convincing out of all the escorts, and that's why District 4's so good at picking up sponsorships. Apart from the obvious with Finnick," he said. "But I'm not the only one who knows that you're willing to go where others won't."

"Fortune favors the bold," said Elan.

"Fortune favors the fortunate. Might not have been this year, though. D'you know that Cyrus Locke suggested to Creon Snow that this year's Games be suspended? With the unrest in District 4 and the pox outbreak in 12 and 11, he wanted him, ah what was it, 'free from distractions.'"

"I have a feeling that didn't pass by the Advisory Committee."

"Obviously. One word from Taurus shoots everything down. And here we are, watching Cicero and Caesar at it again. They even promise us a twist this year."

Elan leaned in again, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. "Speaking of Taurus Sharpe and the insiders…have you heard about his plans for our victor this year?"

"I have not," Julian said, propping his elbows onto his knees. "Is this the part where I hear something I'm not supposed to know? I love these parts."

"Once again, a drunk Galan Greene is good for all sorts of tidbits. I lured him off to a corner of your estate and offered him wine until I thought he'd pass out. I was in it for information on what he wanted out of the Games, but as it turns out, the hole runs a bit deeper than I'd imagined."

"I get the feeling this tidbit is going to cost me dearly."

"And every credit will be worth it. Investing in Terra Pike and Glenn Turner through me could pay off much more handsomely than twenty-to-one odds, considering what's in store for whoever walks out of the arena alive."

**/ / / / /**

If I was scared in the elevator, I was flat-out terrified in the tube that would take me into the arena.

Rhea had been about as helpful as dog poop getting me ready down below. She'd merely shoved a tight maroon tank top at me, saying, "It's probably gonna be hot." Sturdy hiking boots with thick rubber soles and a pair of tough but loose white trousers, baggy enough to let in the wind, rounded out my uniform. It wasn't much to go on. I'd tied my hair up in a ponytail and splashed water on my face in preparation for what was to come, but besides that, I was headed into the arena blind.

I'd passed the idle minutes by rubbing my thumb over the hard red patch where a Capitol attendant on the hovercraft had plunged a long needle into my arm and injected a tracker. It still hurt, but fear for what was coming next had overwhelmed the pain.

The tube brought everything into focus. As soon as the clear plastic enveloped me and the lift inched its way out of the green-walled holding room below and towards the arena above, I struggled to breathe. I wanted to get out, _out_, of this thing! I didn't want to go up there!

My last view of Rhea Perrigo was my stylist leaving the room as fast as she could before darkness surrounded me. The darkness didn't end there, however.

After a minute or so of rising in nothing but blackness, I was convinced that whoever had built this arena had placed the holding rooms too far underground. That, however, wasn't it: I realized something wasn't right when a loud _crack!_ snapped through the tube. I looked up as a lightning bolt arced through an inky sky. The tube pulled back, and I smelled the acrid stench of sulfur on the hot, dry wind.

They'd thrown me into the Dark Hell itself.

A midnight sky laced with lightning-lit clouds stretched off to jagged, rocky peaks on three sides of me. Ahead and off in the distance, flashes of lightning lit up what looked like long-dead stone ruins, eaten away by time and the wind. Everywhere I looked I saw rocks, rocks, and more rocks – rocks big and small, rocks jagged and smooth, rocks that shined with the light from the sky's electric show and rocks even blacker than the sky. The Cornucopia itself was submerged in a small depression of sorts: Whoever went down there would be committed to a fight, unless they could hurry up a small but steep hill quickly. I couldn't even see what was in the giant metal horn from my platform.

I'd cried out my last tears long ago, but the hot wind sucked even the saliva out of my throat. Other tributes had risen on either side of me, but in the gloomy darkness, I couldn't make out who they were. The booming of thunder nearly deafened Caesar Flickerman's booming voice as he announced, "Welcome, tributes, viewers, Panem, to the 96th Hunger Games! Let the countdown…begin!"

A red flare shot up from the cone of the Cornucopia into the black sky, a blast of lightning accompanying the kickoff. My nerves threatened to tear me apart just when I needed them the most. _Don't panic, Terra. Keep your head. Think. Think._ Gods, how could I not panic in _this_ place? It was an arena designed for panic!

With twenty seconds to go, I steadied my resolve just enough to look for something I could grab. Something, anything – and then I spotted it. A sturdy backpack was propped up next to a rock about ten feet in front of me, just on the lip of the depression that ran down into the Cornucopia. Next to it was the only weapon I could see all around, a machete that shined with the bright flashes of lightning.

_Get that. C'mon Terra. I need you to focus now._

Five seconds. Four. Three. Two.

One.

I fell apart just as a green flare shot out of the Cornucopia and the kid to my right sprinted forward. I half-jumped forward and half-ran back, caught between the two ideas and settling for stumbling off to my left and narrowly catching my balance before I fell over.

Oh God. Oh God. _I don't know what to do._

I stopped as the kid from my right grabbed the machete and hurdled over the lip of the depression. The backpack was still there. I could still get it. It might even have stuff in it I could use.

_The hell with this_.

Shouts. Screams. The boom of thunder. I bolted back towards the jagged peaks and took off running. I wasn't getting the pack. I wasn't getting anywhere near that Cornucopia, near the shouts and the screams and whatever else was going on down there. Fear told me where to go: Away. Away from the killers. Away from death.

_I don't want to die_.


	12. The Dead Lands

_**+ Again, thanks to ArtemisCarolineSnow for the review! Seriously, you are a terrific reader and reviewer! Time to dive into the arena and some action. Fair warning; I'm looking to ramp up some of the horror aspects far more than the book games did down the road. Just seems like there's so much more potential in the arena besides just mutts, Careers, and some bad weather/terrain effects to be exploited. **_

**/ / / / /**

The orchestra of cannons began a little while later.

I sat down on a rock and dug my feet into the loose, scraggy stones of the earth, rubbing my cheeks and coming away with my palms covered in grease and dust. My knees ached from the several times I'd tripped running from the Cornucopia, stubbing my feet on rocks hidden in the darkness. Only a dull violet glow from the city ruins far behind me, along with the frequent flashes of lightning, kept me on a straight path away from whatever horrors I'd escaped from.

_Boom_.

The sky flashed, but it wasn't lightning. A bright white flare burst through the darkness from the distant horizon to my right. _Boom_, again – the thunder, no, the gunshot – the _cannon_ shot.

_Boom. Boom._

Five, six, seven – and just before I moved onto eight, a red flash high above me lit up the sky. The familiar rumbling hum of a hovercraft joined the bass drum strikes of the cannons. _Here for the bodies_, I thought, but I stopped as the aircraft halted high above the arena, far off from where I figured the Cornucopia had to be. A trio of white streamers flared off into the sky, and in a brief moment, I saw as something jetted away from the hovercraft towards the ground.

It hadn't been here to pick anything up – it'd arrived to drop something off.

I was perplexed. Had the Gamesmakers forgotten something by mistake? Maybe I'd just been mistaken; maybe it had just lowered a claw or something else to scavenge for dead tributes. Most likely, the arena's darkness already was playing games with my head. I never minded the night back home, but in District 5, thousands of stars and the familiar creamy band of the galaxy called the midnight sky home. Here there was nothing but the ink above from horizon to horizon, broken up only by the hot lightning that lit up menacing dark clouds.

The color had been drained of this place. Everywhere I looked, sharp, spiny gray and black rocks stretched out as far as I could see. The arena had pushed back life itself. There were no trees, no animals, no plants, no sign that nature had ever touched this place.

I had no choice. I'd fled with nothing but my clothes and my rapidly diminishing confidence, and without water or food out here, I wouldn't make it three days, even if Delfin or Acheron or some other tribute didn't come along and skewer me on the pointy end of a stake.

Now wasn't the time to sulk about how I'd run away without even trying to salvage a moral victory at the Cornucopia. I had to leave that behind.

Scrambling over the loose shale ground meant that heading off in the direction of a tall, shadowy peak was slow going. I had nothing to help me keep my balance here in these dead lands, and every ten minutes I had to pick myself up from yet another ungainly fall.

_What a clumsy one!_ I imagined Cicero Templesmith laughing back in his studio, free from the oppressive dry heat of the arena. _Good thing she didn't try to fight it out. She'd probably fall onto a sword by accident!_

Time trudged on. The night didn't. The wasteland air sapped all the saliva out of my throat and mouth, but I'd seen no sign of water since…however long I'd been hiking from the Cornucopia. I had no way to tell time here with no sun and no moon, and the only certainty I'd concluded was that it was before the end of the first day. So far, I'd seen no sign of the nightly death count in the sky. I didn't even know how _many_ other kids had died with the hovercraft's interruption. I was blind and deaf, scrabbling this way and that in the dead wastes.

My stomach growled. Now my not eating much this morning felt idiotic. I should have eaten as much as I could. I should have done a lot of things. I should have learned more, I should have made a better impression. Stupid things. Stupid girl doing stupid things, and now it was going to bite me if I couldn't even find a drop of water in this place.

After the fiftieth or so time I'd slipped on shale, I came face to face with the Gamesmakers' idea of lunch.

An oblong beetle the size of my fist scurried under a stone. The glare from a lightning flash shined off of its glossy shell, and it probed the air with a pair of finger-length antennae. I'd seen bugs like this all the time in District 5, collecting around the base of algae farms and congregating about the back door of my family's cantina that ill patrons frequented. I ignored them then, but I couldn't afford to ignore this guy.

I was hungry.

My stomach rumbled in discontent – both out of a lack of food and the prospect and chowing down on an insect. In the dusk, I couldn't figure if this bug had been one of the "edible insects" that training was supposed to teach, but right now, it was the only thing I had in terms of energy.

_Just bite the bullet and eat it, Terra_.

I scrunched up my nose and caught the bug by its legs. It clawed at my fingers, but I was determined to beat this thing. I sure hadn't beaten anything else, from training to the Cornucopia to what I could only imagine any sponsors in the Capitol thought of me by now. I could do this. I wasn't afraid of _everything_.

"C'mon," I said, squeezing my eyes tight and dropping the bug into my mouth.

_Youch!_ It clamped onto my tongue as soon as it fell in, and I bit down instinctively. A crunchy goop exploded in my mouth, the taste of bitter almonds someone had left out for far too money months fanning out to every corner of my mouth. I coughed, hiccuped, and forced myself to swallow. _Blech!_

I leaned over and sucked in a long breath. _Please tell me there's actual food in this place_.

Still, it was better than nothing. I clambered on, climbing over a nearby hill and facing down into a gravely crater. I'd begun to regret coming this way so far from anything alive, but one look down told me that I wasn't entirely without luck.

A red flare burned down in the center of the crater, hissing with crimson sparks. It was light – _light_, real light that wasn't from the sky or from the cannons. Even better, a small, wooden box about the size of a small couch sat next to it, covered in gravel but containing a mystery begging to be unlocked. Maybe it was food, water, tools even, something, _anything_ I could use to get out of the monochromatic despair of these dead wastes.

I nearly tripped over my own feet as I scrambled down the scree. When I rushed up to the crate and saw the steel latches on the back of the wood, however, reality smacked me in the face. Here I had a box with untold benefits for staying alive right in front of me…

…and I had no way of opening it.

Two Hells! I smashed a rock into the box's lid in frustration, but I didn't do more than split the loose stone into pieces. The rocks here were too brittle and frail, and kicking the box only left me with a sore foot. I sat down on the box and clamped my palms against my head, seething in frustration. _Think_. The flare could work, but I risked setting ablaze anything inside – and I certainly didn't have any water to put out a fire with.

Unfortunately, I didn't have much more of a choice. Just as I bent down to grab it, however, a loud hiss froze me solid. Illuminated by the flickering red light, a thick, shiny-skinned snake slid along the base of the box, eying me up and tasting the air with its tongue. It looked just as hungry as I was.

Slowly, surely, I backed up. Trap! Maybe there was something in the box, but grabbing the flare would no doubt earn me a bite – and I had no idea whether or not the snake was poisonous. It was big, and the scaly triangular ridges over its beady eyes gave it a menacing glare. So much for looking bold. I wasn't going to screw around with that. This was the Hunger Games. No doubt the snake was packing a gallon of venom behind its fangs. I'd had my fill of rattlesnakes back in the canyon at home, and the last thing I wanted to do was die panting and gasping as snake venom flowed through my veins. Knowing the Gamesmakers, this snake was probably much, much more deadly, as well. I doubted I'd have minutes.

But danger had boxed me into the crater. The snake had forced me out of the bottom, and climbing back up would mean scrambling over all the loose scree to the lip of the hill. I wouldn't get there in time: Standing at the top, a tall boy with a backpack over one shoulder eyed me. A flash of lightning lit up the iron crowbar in his hands. His trousers were torn and shredded, as if he'd already survived one fight with another kid or an animal.

Oh no. No, no.

He kicked a mound of scree down the hill and shrugged. "Hey."

I backed up, putting the box between me and him and careful to keep sight of the snake. "Hey."

The boy leaned back and slid down the hill, landing on all fours a dozen feet away. Another lightning flash lit up his face: He was the boy from District 7, the one I'd seen showing off skills as a fist fighter back in training. He had a weapon, he had supplies, and he was a lot, _lot_ bigger than me.

"Saw you come this way from a ways off," he said, glancing down at the box. "Anything good in there?"

"You can have it," I said. I glanced over my shoulder. Even if he slipped as much as I did on the loose rock, there was no way I'd get up the hill before he overtook me. Heat flashed across my face, and I felt numb.

He snorted. "Kinda intend to. But, y'know. Gotta take care of business."

"D'you want something?" I asked, stalling for time. My mind raced and my heart pounded. The rocks were too brittle to defend myself with. I didn't have any weapons on me. I was half his size. Negotiate? C'mon, c'mon: "Look, I, uh…I know the volunteer kids always team up. We can look after each other. I'm handy."

"Not this year," he said, planting the curved end of his crowbar into the ground and wiping his forehead. "The boy from 2 killed his district partner. I saw it. The pair from 4 hightailed it. There's no little band."

_Oh Gods._ Plan B was down. My throat tightened up and I balled my fists. "Y'know, I just…I…how 'bout I just go? You – I…you probably don't wanna kill anyone anyway." Fear licked like a fire at my face. "I probably won't last too long out there as it is."

The boy sighed and hoisted his crowbar. "Don't like to tempt fate," he said. "Look, I'm not a sadist. Just come over and kneel down and I'll make it fast. Back of the head, whap, you won't even feel it."

My lungs felt like lead. I shook my head and stepped back. "I can't," I whispered.

"Suit yourself," he said.

He stepped forward and I glanced down. I had something, one shot. One stupid, desperate shot to survive, and it wasn't in my hands. I pivoted to my right, trying to keep the box between the two of us. He frowned and placed his hand on the lid, vaulting over the box and landing right next to the snake's head.

_Whap!_

The serpent lunged. Lightning crackled overhead as the snake dug its fangs into the boy's exposed ankle, right between where the seam in his trousers had torn. He swore and jumped back, his eyes widening as large as bird eggs as he saw the animal. He dropped his crowbar in shock and bent down in a panic, rubbing his finger over the bite wound.

"No, no…"

_C'mon Terra!_ I lunged and hurled a chunk of rock at the snake, distracting it just long enough to get my hand around the flare and jump back.

"That was a dirty trick, bitch," the boy from 7 groaned, picking up his crowbar. "Probably not even poisonous."

"Keep away from me," I croaked, waving the flare in front of my face and keeping the snake between us. He wasn't down, and I could see battle rage in the red lines in his eyes.

He spat at me. "One snake's not gonna save you."

The boy lumbered towards the box again, but he grimaced as he planted the bitten leg. Whatever the snake had injected, it was working fast. As I circled and kept the box and the serpent between us, the boy clenched his teeth and breathed heavily.

"Get over here, coward," he snarled, his voice breaking as he swore.

I shook my head. "Uh-uh. Stay away!"

He grunted and smacked at the snake with his crowbar, knocking it out of the way. He lunged at me, but I jumped aside and waved the flare at him again. The boy backed up out of the way of the burning sparks and right into the snake's path a second time.

_Whap!_

He went down. The boy grabbed his leg and groaned, rolling away from the snake and dropping his crowbar to the ground. The venom was acting fast. Already he was spitting up and coughing, struggling to get on his two feet. As soon as the boy stood up, he fell down to the ground again and choked up foam. He tried to say something, but his face was so contorted in pain that I could only make out a garbled jumble.

I wouldn't want to die like that.

I held my flare aloft and circled around the box, careful to keep my distance from the snake. The boy lurched at his crowbar like a broken marionette. He fell on his face in the scree, gasping and struggling for a breath as I pried his weapon away.

"I told you to stay away," I said, flinging my flare away and wielding his crowbar in both hands. "I wouldn't have done this if you'd just let me go. Now I have to. Sorry."


	13. Two Deaths

_**+ Thanks once again to the wonderful ArtemisCarolineSnow for the review! And yea, we're not done with seeing exactly what Terra can eat in the arena. Yay! And we take a short detour to District 4 in the second half of this chapter. Also, sorry for the wait…this chapter, yeesh. This chapter gave me issues. Hopefully that will not happen again…**_

**/ / / / /**

"_Huhck!"_

So much for courage. I dry-heaved over the bloody rocks where the boy from District 7's body had rested just a minute ago, before the hovercraft had swooped down and spirited it away from this horrible place. I'd killed him. I. Me.

Gods, I'd killed him.

It'd just seemed so simple. He'd fallen, I'd had a rush of bravery, I'd swung the crowbar at his head, and now…now…now I didn't know what to do. I propped myself up on my blood-stained tool and hobbled towards the still-unopened chest, careful to keep an eye on the snake as I did. Wedging the sharp end of the crowbar into the wooden lid, I jammed down on the tool and laid my weight onto it. The lid gave with a sharp _crack!_ and split open. I slipped back down onto the ground and tossed the crowbar aside. For all of…all of that, the prize had to be worth it.

The Gamesmakers, however, hadn't rewarded me.

When I shoved the lid off to the side, a horde of cockroaches swarmed out of the box. I shrieked and jumped back, skidding on the loose scree and landing on my rear. More bugs streamed out nad littered the ground. _Enough!_ I grabbed the dead boy's backpack and the crowbar and hightailed it up the ridge, scrabbling on unsteady rock in my desperation to get out of the hellish hole. I'd forgotten the flare and abandoned any hope that there was anything beneath the sea of bugs – _forget it!_ I couldn't take it anymore. I stumbled over the lip of the depression, fell to my knees, and cried. I'd killed a stranger for nothing. Nothing! The backpack was empty, and I was no closer to keeping my growing hunger and thirst at bay – not to mention keeping away any roving predators or more aggressive tributes who might take advantage of me.

I wanted to throw the crowbar away. I wanted to bury it deep where nobody would find it, but it was all I had. It was the only useful thing I'd gained from killing some kid whose parents and friends probably were cursing me right now. The horrible, brutish black tool caked in blood was my only lifeline out here.

This was all happening too fast. I slumped down into the loose rock, using the backpack as a pillow as I cried myself to sleep.

Yet despite my hopes, day never came. Night reigned when I woke. The Capitol had taken the sun away from me until I died or won. I'd never even heard the announcement of the daily death count. Either I'd been too tired to wake up for it…or the Gamesmakers were keeping us all in the dark. I leaned over, grabbing my stomach and wincing at a pang of hunger. No telling what time it was, but I guessed I hadn't drank anything in somewhere around a day. I couldn't keep going like this.

My thirst wasn't the hardest-hitting problem besieging me, though. When I looked around the empty expanse of rock, lightning, and darkness all around me, I saw nothing but emptiness. Loneliness filled in the gaps in my mind, festering in the nooks and crannies in my fraying sanity. In however long it had been since I stepped into this place, the one person who I'd really met had communicated with me via death. For all I knew, everyone else I'd meet from now until I ventured off into the great beyond would greet me just the same.

I'd never had many friends, but this kind of loneliness crushed me. The arena's void hollowed out a spot in my heart. As I stumbled to my knees and braced myself on my crowbar, my mind howled at me to lie down. _Why get up?_ screamed the thoughts bubbling out from some dark corner of my brain. _You're not fighting for anything or anyone but yourself. Don't keep fighting it. Maybe you're already dead_.

I got up anyway.

A torrent of lightning crackled off in the distance, away from the Cornucopia and towards the other side of the depression and what I figured was the edge of the arena. A storm, maybe, or the Gamesmakers telling me they were going to push me back towards the center. As hard as I looked, I couldn't see anyone else out here. As much as I wanted to avoid the others, I couldn't imagine the arena would let me stay alone for long. I didn't want to be surprised again.

First off, however, I had to attend to my rumbling stomach.

The depression tempted me back down its hills, and I slid down the scree with a certain sense of dread. The snake was gone, the flare was long since out, and the body was long gone, but walking back into the pit as a _boom_ of thunder roared overhead shook my nerves. It didn't help when I approached the box. Roaches and beetles still covered the crate, and right now, I had to think more about keeping myself going rather than how disgusted this sight made me.

Oh boy.

_You ate a beetle yesterday, Terra_. Reminiscing over the goopy, crunchy taste wasn't reassuring. I bit my lip and waved my crowbar at the box, knocking a dozen skittering insects to the ground. Breakfast would consist of a half-dozen spiny locusts nearly the size of my palm, a few dark-shelled beetles, and what I only imagined was a gargantuan stick insect born from some horrible nightmare, its finger-length antennae daring me to shove it down my gullet.

_Smack!_ I pounded the insects into a pulpy, leg-strewn mash with my weapon. Squeezing my eyes shut, I gathered the remains into a goopy, burger-like ball and forced it between my lips. My stomach lurched at the taste of iron and…and _guts_. I forced myself to keep chewing on the horrible block of bug, gumming away as one of the legs dripped out of my mouth.

"There has got to be something else to eat," I wheezed five minutes later, my hands on my knees and my heart thumping with hammer blows to my chest. Everything tasted like trash. I had no words.

How long passed as I trudged over the blasted landscape, my ears ringing with the sound of thunder? Minutes? Hours? Rock blended into rock as I clambered over boulders and tromped across cracked gray clay. For all I could tell, I might have died already and simply missed it. Maybe the three Lords had damned me to pacing this whole stupid wasteland forever, caught in the infinite nothingness between life and something less.

Exhaustion and thirst bore down on me as the sandpaper wind picked up again. I huddled against a crumbling stone obelisk perched on a hill of loose shale, clutching the dead boy's backpack to my chest and resting my weapon in my lap.

_Ping!_

I scratched my ear – I was hearing things now in between the artillery shots of thunder. My ear pinged again and I dug a finger into my ear canal. The last thing I needed was to lose my last vestiges of coherence out here.

_Ping!_

I looked up in anger, but insanity didn't descend on me. The wind blew a shiny silver parachute my way, crackling lightning reflected in its glistening fabric. A thick, bulging bundle covered in white wrapping dangled below from a trio of cords. I leapt to my feet and jumped to catch the bundle, grabbing it with both hands and clawing at the packaging like a crazed animal. It suddenly didn't matter what I looked like to the audience. Someone had given me something! Something, anything to relieve the tedium and doubt swirling around inside me was a godsend.

My spirits jumped as I pulled a fluffy brown blanket from the crinkling wrapping. It sure wasn't cold in the arena, and even though the blanket was a neutral color, it probably wouldn't do much for camouflaging me even if I was in immediate danger. When I pressed the soft cotton to my face and inhaled the sweet smell of lavender, however, I knew what the gift was. Finch and Daud wanted to lift my spirits, and clutching the fleece to my chest stirred a warm little flame in my heart that this bitter arena had extinguished from the moment I'd stepped off my platform at the Cornucopia. Just holding onto something gave me a flicker of hope.

Something inside the rolled-up blanket sloshed. Perplexed, I dug my hand into the fleece and pulled out a steel water bottle, splashing around a liquid inside. So they had given me something practical. I smiled just a bit as I took a sip of water that tasted better than the sweetest wine I'd drank back at the Capitol.

_Thank you, guys. Thank you._

I didn't realize sleep taking over until I woke up later, my hands still wrapped around the blanket. My fears snapped back on in an instant and I jammed the parachute, blanket, and water bottle into my backpack. I looked around, hoping no one had snuck up on me as I'd napped.

When I looked down at the wasteland flats stretching out towards the ruined city on the horizon, however, I saw my fear walking towards me amidst a storm of swirling sand and dust.

**/ / / / /**

Annie Odair always woke up early this time of the year.

It was worse this year. Now she was alone, with her husband Finnick and her son Drake off in the Capitol as victors. The Gamesmakers and rulers had left her alone ever since she'd won in the Hunger Games twenty-six years ago, but that reprieve didn't stop the loneliness she felt – or the nightmares that haunted her every hour. Normally Finnick would be there to help her through those times, to hold her, stroke her hair, and tell her everything would be alright in his arms. In past Games years, Drake would just sit with her when she struggled with her demons. He wouldn't say anything, just sit – but her son being there meant so much to the conflicted woman.

Now she had no one. Annie couldn't bear the darkness, so she woke with the rising sun and went to bed with its retreat behind the horizon of crashing waves.

A squadron of squawking gulls circled in the cloudless skies overhead as Annie shut the thick wooden door of her home in District 4's Victor's Village. A stray cat covered in gangly brown fur scampered away from her creaking front porch into the rotting wood of the abandoned house across the way. No one had ever lived in that thing: For all of District 4's success in the Hunger Games, never had victors filled every one of the Village's houses of peeling white paint and splinter-covered decks.

"No!"

Someone shouted to Annie's left. She swallowed a scream and clamped her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes and kneeling down on her porch. _Stop, stop, stop_! A head rolled along the ground in her mind, resting at her feet and spurting blood like a fountain from the neck. A pair of glazed sea green eyes pleaded with her.

But when Annie looked up, there was no one there. No one had shouted: Brooke Larsen's beefy pit bull next door woofed at her from the neighboring porch as it chewed on an old, bleached-white whale bone. Annie clutched at her arms. Even though the dog wagged its tail and panted like a happy kid as it pushed the bone from one paw to the other, its size and muscles intimidated her. Maybe Finnick and Drake liked Brooke and her mammoth of a dog, but Annie didn't want anything to do with the fiery victor next door.

Annie hurried away from the Village. She rushed off to nowhere in particular, eager to reach the dock markets that she'd be just as eager to leave later. There was no peace during the Games.

Annie scuffled down the dirt path towards District 4's docks. Sea foam sprayed up in the air along the tall, dark cliffs that overlooked a rocky beach of swirling tide pools, bleached driftwood, and salt-encrusted kelp that had dried out on the rocks overnight. She kicked tiny stones and shells out of her way and stared down at her sandals, tracing her shoes' fraying leather with her eyes. Already a pair of trawlers steamed out into the deep blue bay, en route to the vast ocean to the west and a day of scouring the sea for the district's life blood. The black-and-white striped lighthouse off in the distance called out one long, mournful note as the morning mist faded little by little with the advance of the sun.

It was home to Annie, but without her husband and son, all the little sights and sounds seemed a shade or two darker.

She didn't look up as the road widened and people passed her. Annie knew they looked over their shoulders and whispered things behind her back. Even after twenty-six years, she was still the _weird_ victor. She could talk like a normal person and she could blend in with any of them if she tried – but she couldn't when their eyes probed her up and down and their faces showed their disappointment in her. _Some showing you are_, she imagined them saying. _District 4 is a proud district. We deserve better from our best_.

She'd heard their other whispers, too. They weren't the whispers of _strange woman_, but the ones that wound their way through _blood_ and _ours_ and _independent_. Finnick had warned her not to listen to what so many of the people down at the docks said, but she couldn't ignore the growing energy that seethed in the district, particularly after the Cannery Pier riot back in February that had led to six bodies – one of them much too small – being sent off to the ocean's depths.

The whispers had only grown since then.

Annie was used to the crowds that gathered on the barnacle-covered docks in the mornings, but something was wrong today. A large group of people clustered in a semicircle around the edge of the nearest pier and ignored the crawling red crabs and dried seaweed leaves that tantalized from the market's storefronts. Some looked in shock, others scowled and talked amongst themselves, and all looked angry. Annie couldn't help herself. She hurried forward, craning her neck to get a glimpse of what everyone was gathered about.

A grizzled man with leathery brown skin and a hook-like scar across his left forearm stopped her a dozen feet away from the growing gathering. "Not the sight for you, miss," he growled. "You got enough to worry 'bout."

Annie slipped out of his grip. "Let me see, Rio," she said, struggling into the crowd.

The man sighed and stepped back as Annie pushed her way past a half-dozen men arguing with one another, their faces contorting with a cross of rage and nervousness and their words loud, angry, and full of swearing. Annie saw something small and bloated on the dock ahead. She pushed to the front of the circle and immediately lurched backwards, covering her ears and trying to drown out the horrible sight.

A girl, probably no more than nine, lay dead on the dock. The ocean had taken its toll: She was missing her left arm, bitten off at the shoulder by a shark or other denizen of the deep. Her skin was puffy and spongy from the water's assault. It'd eaten away at a nasty hole in her throat, just under her chin, as if someone had stabbed her. The fishermen perhaps could have explained it away if not for the message slathered in red paint on the plank above the corpse's head.

UNTO ALL INSURGENTS

Annie couldn't move. She couldn't get the horrid sight of her head, and a rush of memories attacked her mind with the ferocity of a swarm of killer bees. She only just heard the conversation next to her as a man said, "They just found her like this?"

"Someone put her there," another said. Annie recognized it as the older man who had tried to stop her – Rio West, one of the district's most respected boat captains. "Warning, maybe."

"From who?"

"Someone stupid. Someone not thinking very hard about what happens when you kill off little kids," Rio growled. "Almost makes you think that something should be done about it."

Annie shut her eyes tighter. The whispers were growing louder.


	14. Wanting Whatever

_**+ Shout out to Izziwolfy and ArtemisCarolineSnow for the reviews, and to everyone reading and following along! Another Terra-centric chapter here as we stick to the arena**__. __**Kinda short chapter, too.**_

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Why couldn't they just leave me alone?

My heart pounded as I watched a shadowy figure walking towards me as the wind kicked up, shrouding the newcomer in a veil of gray dust. The cloud glowed as lightning flashed behind it, but I couldn't make out a single detail about just who was headed my way. Boy, girl, powerhouse tribute or starving kid; I didn't know, and I didn't want to find out.

I'd been stupid to stay so long on the hill. I couldn't much go sprinting off in the other direction without the other kid seeing me – if he hadn't already – and I doubted I'd be able to outrun him anyway if he had supplies and a few good meals in his belly. My few drinks of water and bites of bug hadn't been enough to keep my muscles from tiring and my stomach from snarling out of angry neglect.

I needed to run, so naturally, I slipped to the ground and froze.

He had to have seen me. The kid closed in, and I pulled my crowbar to my chest. Despite the feeling of the hardened steel in my hands, I felt anything but powerful. I was vulnerable and alone out here. I'd killed the boy from District 7 on sheer luck, and if this tribute was any smarter, I had no chance. My legs refused to kick in even as every instinct screamed at me to run.

As the wind calmed and the dust settled, however, I saw that the new arrival wasn't a killer by the looks of it. My fear of dying at the hands of some brute faded away into a hollowing sort of anxiety, the kind of apprehension that turned my guts into a bubbling swamp.

The skinny, underfed boy from District 12 I'd first noticed back at the chariot parade plodded along through the scree field at the base of the hill. He'd seen me alright: The boy's steps slowed as he approached and he never let his gaze leave the top of the hill. I could just make out his face in the dim light. He didn't look any stronger than when I'd first seen him, and even though the boy had a backpack on, he didn't carry a weapon. The dust covering his every inch made him look like a wilting ghost out here on the wastes.

Would he seriously try to fight me? He was alone, unarmed, and as far as I could tell, he didn't have any trick up his sleeve. There was no way I could kill this kid. It wouldn't be self-defense, it'd be murder. Putting down the kid from District 7 had been bad enough, but at least I could justify it to my skeptical conscious. He'd had the upper hand, he'd come at me, and I'd done my best to play peacekeeper. There were no lies I could tell myself to justify beating this much smaller boy's brains in, even if he rushed me in a headlong suicide charge. I couldn't do it.

The boy, however, didn't look in the fighting mood. He stopped at the edge of the hill's incline, sat down, and unshouldered his pack. I frowned, confused. It had certainly looked like he'd seen me. As he rooted around in his pack for something, however, I crawled forward an inch and strained my eyes for a better look. The boy pulled out a small silver bag and tossed it a few feet up the hill. He glanced up at me for just a second before I understood the gesture. He wasn't looking to fight. He was offering me something.

_Trap!_ screamed an alarm in my head. _He's baiting you. You'll run down the hill all eager and he'll skewer you like a rat. Run away. Run away from this kid._

Yet in the back of my mind, some tiny whisper begging for someone else in this lonely hellscape forced me forward. I threw my backpack over a shoulder and held my crowbar aloft, careful to keep my eyes open for some secret danger the boy might have hidden. He tensed up when he saw my weapon, but he held his ground. I inched forward slowly but surely, no more than a foot at a time, keeping my eyes fixed on him. He had to be hiding something. He had to be waiting to strike me as soon as my guard fell.

A thought struck me. He'd tried to help me back at the fire-starting station in training. Ember – that was his name, Ember. He'd shown a friendly hand in training, and I'd run from it.

_Trick. Trap._

I slunk forward and snatched the plastic bag he'd tossed to the ground. The contents rattled when I shook it. Careful to keep an eye on Ember, I opened the zipped top of the bag and inhaled a rich nutty scent. After living on bugs and a few sips of water, the smell was almost enough to bring tears to my eyes.

This was the Hunger Games, and Ember was just giving food away.

I hefted my crowbar and backed up a step. "What d'you want for it?" I growled.

"It's not a trade," said Ember. He lowered his head, and darkness swept over his face. "Go ahead and have it."

"Did you poison it?"

He looked up at me without a word and frowned. _Can't be too careful,_ I thought. I pocketed the bag despite my overwhelming urge to chow down on every nut in the bag. "If it's alright, why don't you eat it?" I asked.

"I can't do something nice for someone?" he said, tossing a rock in the air. Thunder boomed as the stone hit the ground.

"We're supposed to be killing each other."

He raised an eyebrow and gave a little snort. "I don't think people like you and me are cut out for that kinda thing."

"I am," I said, sniffing and raising my chin. _He's luring you into a false sense of security, Terra, _I thought. _Pity the weak kid, and then he stabs you in the back of the neck. Get away from him while you still can._

He laughed with a skeptical, high-pitched giggle. "So you're some sort of trained killer?"

"Since yesterday. Or earlier. Whatever day it is."

"That's why you're acting like I'm going to jump you, then," he said, rolling his eyes. "You don't have to act all defensive. I'm not gonna hurt anyone. You're the one with the weapon. Where'd you get that?"

I paused and furrowed my brow. Ember thought I was playing tough. I couldn't figure out what this kid wanted. "Took it from the boy from 7. He attacked me first. Snake bit him. Then I did."

"You're serious?" he asked. His eyes widened, and for the first time, I saw that he, too, was serious. He wasn't playing me for a fool. His dirty, dust-streaked face, with its gaunt cheeks and narrow chin, was the picture of a boy who didn't want to be here. He wasn't a fighter.

It struck me as familiar.

Ember glanced behind him and slumped his shoulders, as if resigning himself to whatever came next. "You gonna kill me too, then?" he asked.

I tightened my grip on my crowbar. _Survivors don't pass up opportunities,_ I thought. It'd be best to get rid of any competition now, especially when I had the advantage. I doubted I'd get the same chance again. Instead of swinging at his head, however, I reached in my pocket, dug out the bag of nuts, and shoved a fistful of them into my mouth.

I sat down and pressed the blood-stained end of the crowbar into the ground, resting my hands on the other end. I kept a few feet from Ember, and I could still react if he tried something, but from the way relief swept across his face, I figured he was happy to have someone who just wanted to talk. Funny thing. "Why'd you come at me?" I asked.

"Didn't see you had that," he mumbled. He paused and waved a hand in the air as if trying to find the right way to phrase his next words. "I'm also…I just…I'm sick of being alone out here."

That hit me with a pang of guilt for thinking he was waiting to backstab me. I was lonely, and here was just another kid from the districts who felt the same thing. Our situations could have been flipped so easily: I could have been some poor, underfed girl from District 12 and he could have come from a decent lifestyle in modest District 5, and we still both would have felt the same thing in here.

I glanced down at my half-eaten bag of nuts. I hadn't prepared for having someone else around in the arena. "Does this mean we're like…a, you know…"

"We're just whatever," he said.

That was fine by me. Team, alliance, whatever. I could do whatever.


	15. The Edge of Chaos

_**+ Another big thanks to super-reviewer ArtemisCarolineSnow, RadioFreeDeath, and Izziwolfy! Seriously, feedback is awesome, and I'm always happy to hear what you guys think of the story! As a note, the arena action from the end of this chapter on out is going to ramp up significantly – just a heads-up, as some of the stuff I have planned for the wasteland isn't exactly sunshine and butterflies. Or the Hunger Games version of sunshine and butterflies.**_

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"Where'd you get all this stuff? The Cornucopia?"

Ember's backpack was a wormhole to some infinite dimension of supplies. He had enough food to last for days, along with thin, tightly-wound black rope, a log-like hunk of pink clay that he said worked as a fire source, a flint, and more. The only thing he was missing was a weapon, but I felt ten times better for everything he'd picked up.

"I didn't stick around the Cornucopia," Ember said, packing everything back up. "My mentor told me not to."

"Huh. Smart mentor, I guess."

"He's actually kind of lazy. He's definitely drunk all the time. Haymitch. He's probably forgotten me."

Hearing Ember curse surprised me more than listening to his worries about his mentor. "Maybe he's just reserved. One of my mentors wasn't all that friendly, but he didn't seem that bad on the inside."

"No, I don't exactly think that's Haymitch. But I got this at the ruins. That whole place is loaded with supply drops."

That made me angry. I'd run from the ruins, fearing that danger lurked all around them, only to find nothing but bugs and rocks. If I hadn't stumbled into Ember, I'd have been in serious trouble finding anything more to eat, much less anything to give me a leg up out here.

"So why'd you come this way?" I asked, playing with my blanket in my lap as we talked. According to my new…friend? Ally? Whatever Ember was, he'd been hiking awhile and wanted a short rest. I certainly wasn't in any hurry to get a move on. "I haven't found anything out here. Just rocks and snakes and stuff."

He frowned and looked off at the dark hills. "Ran into trouble."

"What kinda trouble?"

"District 1 kind. Those two found me. I ran off."

I ran my fingers over a stone I'd been playing with. There really wasn't anywhere safe out here. The stone ruins had supplies I desperately needed but apparently had lured the other tributes in. Out here I'd survived so far, and I could see danger a mile away – but would I just wither and die on these plains?

"Maybe it'd be better to stay out here, then," I ventured. "Maybe there's some supplies I haven't found. It's at least a little safer when we can see people coming from a long ways away."

"Safe?" he scoffed. "There is no safe."

"I mean, besides the one kid I ran into, there hasn't been anything else out here. We'll be safer than running to trouble."

Ember looked frustrated. His face took on an odd sort of complexion, as if he were ten years older, his eyes seeming to sag and shadows crossing across his chin. Maybe it was a trick of the light here in the eternal dusk of the arena, but I got the feeling that Ember was a kid who'd grown up too fast in whatever District 12 was.

"There's nowhere safe," he repeated.

I slumped my shoulders. I'd run into others inevitably, and I doubted all them would be as peaceful as Ember – but I wanted to stave that moment off as long as possible. This place frightened me, and every little fear instinct in my head told me to shut down and stay put. Yet doubt gnawed away at my conviction. Elan's advice tainted my thoughts: _Stand out. Make yourself memorable._ There sure wasn't anything to sell about a girl who had walked along the rocky fields since this whole thing kicked off.

I didn't want to make this decision.

"What d'you wanna do?" I asked, kicking a stone between my feet and staring at the ground.

Ember's eyes widened, and he pointed off into the distant dark sky. "I'm not staying out here. Look."

An abomination floated between dark storm clouds maybe a quarter-mile off. It certainly wasn't something I'd ever seen: A great gas bag, as large as a house and robed in a hide of purple leather, floated through the air, moaning with a terrible baritone cry. Bulbous black tumors scattered about its skin discharged sickly green puffs of gas, and the gas bag jetted forward with each exhale. I couldn't spot a mouth or eyes or any other familiar opening, but that haunting wail it made sent a swarm of goosebumps jumping to attention on the back of my neck.

If the sight and sound of the horrid thing weren't bad enough, it was bringing danger with it, too. Lightning struck the gas bag every two or three seconds and coursed over the monster's body, shooting out of a cluster of jellyfish like tendrils dangling from its bottom. Deadly bolts blasted the ground in explosions of white and electric blue – and they were coming closer.

"What the hell is that?" Ember said, his voice quivering.

I didn't want to say hello. Snatching up my crowbar and backpack, I grabbed Ember's arm and took off at a sprint. I had no idea where to go, but I knew I wanted to get away from whatever the heck was coming our way.

"Where are we going?" Ember shouted. I didn't answer: The blasted plains rushed by me as I focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Something exploded behind me and the landscape flashed with a blinding white glow. My hair stood on end, and the gas bag moaned with another low, mourning cry.

_Bang!_

"You alright?" I yelled to Ember. I glanced back as my ally's eyes widened as large as dinner plates. The gas bag had made up ground in a hurry: In less than a minute it had risen on top of us. The creature's wrinkled carapace clenched and shriveled above. A scaly black tumor shot out a cloud of gas, and I struggled to keep myself from choking against the stark smell of sulfur. My throat burned.

Something roared up ahead. I stumbled forward to the lip of a hill of scree, where below, a whitewater river probably fifty feet wide raged. Small stone outcroppings loomed on the other side, the first ruins of the great necropolis that towered on the horizon. Violet lightning crackled ahead as loud bangs sounded behind me.

"Wait, wait, wai-" I stammered as Ember ran into me.

We both tumbled down the hill. Loose rocks rushed around me as the world turned over again and again. Sparks raced past my eyes, and another blast of lightning from the gas bag blinded me as I fell head over heels down the rubble field. With an _oof_, I collapsed in a heap at the bottom, my backpack digging into my side and my fist clenched in a death grip around my crowbar. At least I hadn't lost anything.

I rubbed dust out of my eyes and recoiled as I saw the river in front of me. Dark water rushed in an angry torrent, with the hill behind me and the raging river in front of me. I couldn't see a way around, and the only other option meant running straight into the hail of lightning bolts the gas creature was sending our way from the rear.

I sure as heck wasn't getting across the river on my own.

"Ember?" I cried as my newfound ally got to his feet, clawing at his shoulder to scrub bits of rock away. "Ember, I can't swim."

He clutched his pack tighter to his shoulders and glanced back at the hill. The gas creature was closing in fast, its lightning bolts already blasting at the top of the scree hill. "Neither can I," he said. "See if we can go around, maybe there's a –"

"There isn't an around!"

Something stirred at my feet before I could argue further. Dust pushed aside as a slimy pale noodle inched its way out of the ground, coiling up in a ball and hissing. A mucous-covered snake longer than I was tall stretched out along the ground behind Ember and I, leaving a trail of translucent ooze on every rock it touched. It reared up three feet into the air. Its head was something born of nightmares, a smooth, rounded globe divided into two sacs that spat and rattled as it curled up into the air.

Ember backpedaled towards the river as the mucous snake hissed at me. Its head divided into a hideous flower, splitting into two flat, triangular flanges lined with bony needles. I leapt out of the way just in time as the creature lunged at me, snapping at the air a millisecond after I'd moved.

"Just jump!" Ember shouted. "Dive into the river!"

"But I can't swim!" I screamed as the snake coiled in front of me, hissing and rattling as it slithered forward. Another _bang_ of lightning lit up an explosion of rock and light from the hilltop.

"Terra!"

I jumped. The snake lunged at me a half-second after I leaped toward the river, and a lightning explosion sent a shower of rock shards flying after me.

_Sploosh!_

_Cold!_ I tensed up as I dove into the frigid water, but before I knew what hit me, the current swept me away. I flailed like a drowning insect against the incredible force of the river. My head burst over the surface and I gulped in air. All I had was a moment before the water dragged me under its dark surface again, blacking out the lights as I tumbled over and over in the cold, wet, howling tunnel.

"_Guh!_" I sucked in another gulp of air as I surfaced. The river roared around me, a wail of demons screaming in both ears as I lost myself in its grasp. I struggled to reach for a passing rock, missed, and submerged for another second before a towering rock rushed at me.

I didn't even get the chance to scream. My head collided with the stone and the darkness rushed in.

**/ / / / /**

"Come to bother me too?"

Cyrus gritted his teeth as he pushed past the doors to Creon Snow's office. He hadn't been the first to see Panem's leader about the situation in District 4, it seemed. Everything seemed peaceful in here: Golden afternoon sunlight shined in through the scarlet-and-violet stained glass behind Creon's mahogany desk, casting a picturesque array of light and color on the wall behind him. The rocky alpine peaks of the Capitol looked radiant, their sun-dried cliffs stoic and strong as a backdrop to the silver towers of the Capitol that glimmered behind the balcony of the spacious room. Even Creon himself loomed regal in the sunlight, his gaunt face bathed in shadow, contrasted against his sun-bathed crimson suit. He'd turned off the television that hung up in the far right corner of the room, hanging above the stylized bronze statue of a Dark Days warrior. No Hunger Games here; the violence the people sought had stayed on the streets.

Yet this place was anything but peaceful, for Panem's twelve districts weren't all feeling so.

"Not to bother," Cyrus said, clasping his hands behind his back and taking a step forward. "Counseling. It's my job title."

Creon leaned back in his seat. In the afternoon glare, his grey stands stood out just a bit clearer than usual. "So counsel me," he said, tossing his pen on his desk. "You going to say I shouldn't be hasty? That a protest in District 4 over some dead girl washed up on the docks shouldn't be met with force? Taurus agreed that I should come out swinging."

_Uh-oh_. Cyrus held out his hand, sucked in his breath, and said, "Taurus is an aggressive man. Doesn't mean you have to be. You've only been in office six months. You can show them mercy, show them that you can negotiate – "

"Talk?" Creon folded his arms and laughed. "These people only respect strength, Cyrus! A band of them rush out on the streets, shouting slander, and you want me to talk to them? If I look weak, they don't respect me. You and I both know what that leads to."

"Doesn't mean –"

"My father kept order during the riots in District 11 and 8 with force. It's worked before."

"And your father is dead!" Cyrus said, letting his voice get away from him as anger bubbled up within. He wasn't angry at Creon. He respected the man – but his opponents had gotten to him first, and he had no doubt that Taurus had his own goals in mind in convincing the President to shed blood on the streets of District 4 after the prior day's protest. What a nightmare: Some commoner girl, the daughter of a cannery worker, had washed up bloated and with a slit neck near the docks. One little spark, that's all it took to kick off a near-riot. Force would only make things worse.

Cyrus took a breath and went on: "You've said it yourself: You want to make your own name, not rule as the son of Coriolanus Snow. Show that you can be merciful. Don't just rush onto the streets of District 4 with Peacekeepers and bullets, or those people will only grow angrier. That district's already on the verge of boiling over. We need to let it simmer down or we'll have a much worse problem on our hands. You tell me what's worse: Showing some compassion, or having a full-scale district revolt on our hands?'

"And where are they going to take these…these niceties you want?" Creon said, sweeping his hand over his desk and frowning. Cyrus hated when he did that: The man's eyebrows furrowed like a hawk's gaze, as if he could attack Cyrus's very soul with his stare alone. "You think a few kind words will make them feel good? I won't give them any special treatment just because they're mad. I'm not going to exempt them from the Games, or decide tesserae counts double in District 4. Every district gets the same helping."

_Well, not exactly._ Cyrus held back from saying the intricacies of Panem that he knew, but the new President didn't: The districts _didn't _receive equal shares. District 4 already had it much better than 8 and 11, which had rioted during Coriolanus's time after decades of hardship and crushing poverty. Shows of strength had maintained order then, but Cyrus wasn't confident the same strategy would work forever. Better to bring the districts under the Capitol's banner with an open hand rather than a closed fist – as long as it kept the peace, it was worth it.

"Let me go there," Cyrus said, leaning over on Creon's desk and clenching his fist. "If I can't do anything, then send in as many Peacekeepers as Taurus wants. But there's a man there, a Rio West, holds a lot of sway with the lower workers. He's even on good standings with the victors, including the Odairs."

Creon pursed his lips. "You just know this man?"

"Technically speaking, I know of him through Lucrezia Bierce's spies," Cyrus said. _At least that shrew was good for something. _"Doesn't matter. I do know him, I've talked with the man, and he knows me. Give me a chance to smooth things over. Progress is a lot easier when we're not shooting at each other."

Creon ran a hand through his hair. His hairline was receding by the day: Running this fracturing nation was taking its toll. "We're on the same side here, Cyrus. You don't need to tell me that," he said. "Fine. You think you can convince this…this man who commands respect in District 4 to calm things down? Take a shot. But if you can't, then I won't hesitate to flatten them. This Rio West, Finnick Odair, it doesn't matter. I'll keep what's mine."


	16. A Killer's Choice

_**+ Thanks for another great review, ArtemisCarolineSnow!**_

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Well, I wasn't dead. Wet, hot, bruised, sure – but not dead.

I crouched on all fours on the black mud of the riverbank, somewhere far downriver from where Ember and I had jumped in. My lungs heaved, and I choked up a stew of snot, water, and dust. Ember wrung out a sock next to me, his face as blank as if he'd been doing the laundry for the last hour. He sure didn't look like a kid who didn't know how to swim.

After coughing out the last bit of phlegm I could muster, I flopped over on my side and laid my cheek in the mud. _Ugh._ "Did I win yet?" I moaned into the muck.

"No, we died and came back as mutts," said Ember, concentrating on dumping an ocean out of his boots. "Now we're stuck here forever. You. Me. Mutt matrimony."

I couldn't help but laugh. My ribs hurt and my lungs protested, but it felt good to have something to smile about.

It beat what lay ahead: Fifty yards down a sloping hill dotted with long, pale, needle-like grass stood a pair of flat, crumbling black stones, with a broken archway spanning the two. Behind them, shadowy gray buildings rose out of the dust, dark and decrepit. Here and there glossy black obelisks jutted out of the dirt in the wide pathways between ruins. Around them, an off-green haze drifted out, speckled with tiny black dots that floated like spores of pollen in the wind. Taller buildings rose off in the distance, some of them topped with angry jagged spires and broken stone keeps. The whole place smelled of antiquity with the same the musky odor of an abandoned hut.

The mood changed quickly in this arena.

"Looks like a great place," I muttered. "Guess we should get a move on."

Ember shivered. "Now that I'm back here, I really just do not want to go into those ruins," he said, his voice small and quiet. "Tumbling in the river sounds like more fun."

"Just 'cuz of other tributes in there?"

"Who knows what all is in that. But other kids too, yeah."

"We gotta run into them eventually."

"Yeah, well, I'm not very eager to die."

I frowned. The little things Ember said frustrated me. It wasn't that I disagreed with him, since I wasn't in a rush to go home in a box either, but I liked to think there was at least _some_ chance that I'd make it out of here alive. A slim chance, maybe, but a real chance all the same. There's two of us now," I said. "You helped me out with supplies, and I can help you out, too."

"With what, killing guys?"

"If they try to kill us, then yeah. We'll kill 'em first."

Ember bit his lip and chuckled ever so slightly. "I don't think I'm going to be doing any of that."

"Ember, we're in the freakin' Hunger Games," I said, raising my voice and digging my heel into the mud. "Only one person goes home. Whoever lives is gonna have to kill someone else. I mean, I wanna go home."

"Is that how they tell you this works to make it sound better in District 5?"

"It _is_ how it works!"

"I bet that kid you killed thought that, too."

"He didn't give me a whole lotta choices."

"I dunno, wasn't there. But maybe you could have run, played dead, just forced him away rather than killing him…give me some time and I probably could come up with more choices."

My fist clenched around a clump of mud. Ember hadn't been there in that pit, with the boy from 7 headed my way. He hadn't heard the snake hissing. The boy would've killed me. If I'd just left him after the snakebite, he could've gotten better, come after me again – something. I don't know. I had to do it. Had to kill him. Had to. I didn't really have a choice.

"Let's just go," I grumbled, shaking water off of my pack and hoisting it back on my shoulders. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. It's over."

Ember sighed. "Fine. And it's not just other kids I'm worried about in the ruins. There was something else in there."

"Something else?"

"A hovercraft dropped something not long after things got going. I thought it was supplies, so I rushed deeper into the ruins to check it out…turned out there wasn't anything there but tracks in the mud. Weird ones."

That sent a shiver up my back. "What kinda weird?"

"Looked almost like a person's bare feet, but not quite. Bigger. Broader. Deeper prints. I dunno. Just something to watch out for."

Something clicked behind the broken archway. I spun my head, exhaled, and said, "Keeping our eyes open sounds like a good idea."

It didn't take much hiking for the dotted ruins to open up into the recognizable outskirts of some long-dead city. Roofless stone huts gaped up at the black sky. Patches of worn cobblestone street cut through the dust and hard earth. The haze I'd seen earlier coalesced around some of the buildings, giving off enough more than enough light to see where we were going but seeping into stone cracks with a nauseous hue. Along with the frequent flashes of lightning, the light made this whole place feel as if some ghost lingered on in the dead ruins, whispering of a life forgotten.

"Hey. Check this," Ember said, the suddenness nearly giving me a heart attack. He waved a shiny piece of plastic at me. "Someone else's been here."

My heart thumped with the pounding blows of a sledgehammer. "Great. You don't even look fazed by this place."

He shrugged, his face as calm as if he'd been taking a midnight stroll under a full moon. "Well, I am, uh, fazed. Just good at hiding it. I'm used to the dark, anyway. My house back home only gets a couple hours of power every night."

"What?"

"Yeah, boo-hoo. We're poor back home."

I crouched against the side of a building and clutched my crowbar. If we were going to chat, I didn't want to be moving. One thing at a time in this place.

"That just doesn't make sense to me," I said. "What do you do in the winter? Just burn things to stay warm? If you only get power -"

"Or freeze. It's not like coal miners can keep the coal they mine."

"Does your family work in the mines?" I asked. "Just seems horrible. I'd freak out with all the darkness and everything underground."

He laughed. "You must hate this freakin' place then. But yeah. Well, my dad works. I don't have any more family. It doesn't really pay him enough, and he doesn't, uh…like you said, there's not a whole lot of options back home."

I looked away. District 5 wasn't the wealthiest place in the world – it certainly wasn't the Capitol – but most people still had enough to eat, and power didn't last just a few hours a day. Mining coal sounded a whole lot less interesting and a whole lot more soul-sucking than working on the power plants, too.

Picking at my thumbnail, I whispered, "Did you know your mom?"

Ember wasn't kidding about hiding his feelings. Whatever he thought of my intrusive question, his face didn't flinch an inch. "Yeah," he said. "Had two big sisters for a while, too. Two years ago a big wave of pox rolled through the district and killed a bunch of people. Guess I'm lucky I'm alive still, but it doesn't feel that way."

He closed his eyes and grinned. "But the odds are in my favor. It's good. I'm ecstatic."

"I'm sorry," I said. I didn't know what else to say. We barely knew each other, and here he was opening up about his brutish past to me.

"Doesn't matter now," Ember said with a shrug and a sardonic laugh. "Besides, one of my sisters was kind of a sissy. Raine wouldn't like watching all this fun we're having."

On that somber note, we picked up our trek deeper into the ruins. Step by step the black sand wastes fell behind and this urban necropolis opened up all around us. I found myself checking every corner we turned and peeking into the darkness within every yawning hut. I clutched my crowbar and looked around a pair of stone pillars when Ember yanked me back.

"Hear that?" he whispered.

I shook my head, but a second later I heard it. Somewhere down the narrow, debris-strewn path in front of us, something was wheezing.

Rocks clacked to my left, from around the side of a dilapidated stone yurt. The haze dissipated around a mound of jagged, broken iron struts, torn patches of cloth, and chipped granite bricks in the dust ahead. It was hard to see through the rubble and the darkness, and I squinted to get a better look as I crept forward. I felt Ember trudging along an inch behind me, his breath hot on the back of my neck.

I missed my footing, stumbled, and landed on a broken pile of stones. _Crack!_ A surprised croak echoed from the other side of the rubble, and taking advantage, I hurdled over the last pile of rubble in the way and held my crowbar up, ready to attack.

A brilliant white light blinded me. I shouted and jumped back, thrusting my weapon at dead air before something started laughing. I backpedaled, ready to strike out again, but the flashlight shined away – up at the face of the kid who was pointing it, slouched against a blood-stained rock.

"Believe this," said a familiar voice. "What a stupid coincidence."

I gasped. It was Glenn.

My district partner huddled against his rock, but he didn't look like the same person I'd ridden into the Capitol with. Almost half of his face had been torn off, with the skin shredded into a bloody tarp from just below his right eye down to his chin. A gaping puncture wound in his right chest leaked a diseased yellow fluid around a scabby crust of blackened blood. Glenn's skin was as pale as a sheet of paper, and his chest heaved with quick, labored breaths. Something – or someone – had ripped him apart.

Ember vaulted over the rubble, saw Glenn, and looked as if he wanted to jump right back over. "Oh, what the…" he whispered.

Glenn looked up at him, coughed up a spray of blood, and laughed with a hoarse, cynical chuckle. "Guess you got over making friends."

"You know this guy?" Ember asked, his eyes as wide as watermelons.

I nodded, still in shock at the sight. "Yeah, I…he's my district partner. Glenn, what happened?"

He choked again. Glenn leaned to his right and spat up a wad of blood, bile, and slime, hacking onto the rock until he was through. "So now we're partners?"

"I'm not gonna hurt you, Glenn."

"You're carrying...what is that, a crowbar?"

"Can you just tell me what happened?"

He coughed again and wiped a smear of blood from his chin. "Pretty much what I expected to happen. Something half-murdered me. Wasn't no kid either. Something big. Something weird."

"Look," I said, waving my hands in front of me and glancing around. "We can…I can try and patch that up, or do something to stop it from getting infected…"

Glenn wheezed and shook his head. "Don't think so."

"Glenn, I'm not just going to leave you there!"

"You sure are," he said, his voice trailing off into little more than a whisper. "Unless you found a hospital at the Cornucopia, this isn't getting any better. I'm not gonna linger around here and die slowly. I tried to fight that thing that got me. That's enough to earn my trip to the Flame Gates. I just want you to send me there a lil' faster."

He glanced at my crowbar and looked back up into my eyes. Realization snaked its way into my guts. He didn't want me to help him – not on this world, anyway. He wanted me to kill him.

Ember figured it out just as I did. "Terra," he said, his voice trembling. "He's going to go into shock soon. You don't have to kill him."

"Don't get holy on me," Glenn spat with a last ounce of malice. His words were trailing off now, his speech slurred, and his voice filled with exhaustion, as if he were getting ready for bed with the sun long since set. "You have no idea what I want. Terra, you said you wanted to go home. Well, you can get a little closer to that and do me a favor. I'm going where I belong. Make it easier on both of us."

"Don't listen to that," Ember said, taking a step towards me and reaching out a hand. "Don't be any more of a murderer. He's not threatening either of us. He's going to die anyway. Let's just walk away."

Glenn coughed and clutched his stomach. "Terra. Please. I just wanna go."

I exhaled and hefted my crowbar. "Ember, don't look," I said.

"No. Terra, you've got a choice here," he said.

"I really don't," said, gritting my teeth. "Glenn…good luck, okay?"

My district partner closed his eyes and said, "Nicest thing I've ever heard. You too, Terra."

Ember bit his lip, stepped back, and looked away. I raised my weapon. At the last moment, Glenn smiled.


	17. Above and Below

_**+ Shout out to ArtemisCarolineSnow and QuirkyIntrovert15 for the two wonderful reviews, and big thanks again to everyone following and reading along! Sorry for the long wait for this chapter as well; originally this was going to be two chapters, but I decided to merge them after I cut out some excess. Also, some weird ish goes down in this chapter. It does have meaning! It's not just weird for weird's sake, although I'm certainly capable of that, too.**_

**/ / / / /**

The white peaks of the mountains surrounding the Capitol shrank into the eastern horizon, their rocky ascents lit up with the orange light of the setting sun. Cyrus nursed a glass of gin and gazed out of the window of the train, trying his best to drown out Cicero Templesmith's excited jabbering from the television mounted on the wall of the lounge car. The juniper smell of the gin was putting him to sleep. The train wouldn't make it to District 4 until the morning, and he wasn't in any mood to watch tributes battle it out in the arena. He'd have turned off the live screening if it wasn't for his traveling companion.

"Just vile!" Julian Tercio said, leaning forward in his seat, shoving a handful of grapes in his mouth, and sticking out his tongue in mock disgust. "That boy from District 4 is absolutely a bull. Goring that girl from 6 in the heart like that – mmm, gruesome, but I can't stop watching the replay. From that reverse angle, it's just like an explosion of gore."

"We'd all be happier if you kept your recap to yourself," Cyrus groaned, taking another swig of gin and wishing he could jump out the window and magically arrive in District 4.

Julian laughed. "Just you. Does party-pooping run in your family?"

"Two people on a train isn't much of a party."

"Big enough for me," said Julian. He ran a hand through his mop-like mane of hair and leaned back, rolling a grape between his thumb and index finger. "Besides, it'd do you good to get festive. You're going to District 4! Reigning champs. Good food. Consider it a vacation."

Cyrus scowled at him. "You know damn well why I'm going. Someone needs to smooth over things before tensions turn into real violence."

"So if they're already uptight, and you're uptight…how well do you think that's going to work out?" Julian said, rolling his eyes. "People get mad, Cyrus! If they were serious about their demonstrations in 4, Taurus would just roll in hovercraft. People get mad, they get it out of their system, they get drunk, they say some things they shouldn't, they fuck, it all gets out of their system. Maybe if we let that happen rather than overreacting so much, this wouldn't be a problem."

"Then tell Creon that."

"Oh, like he'll listen to me. He'll listen to you."

"I'm a little worried he's listening more to Taurus these days."

Julian laughed and tossed a grape at a chrome cup seated on the glass-inlaid wooden table in the center of the room. The fruit bounced off the rim and rolled into a dark corner of the cabin to collect dust. "Look at you. Cyrus Locke, Coriolanus Snow's right hand man, moaning about how Snow two-point-oh thinks his rival offers better advice."

"Big words from you," Cyrus snarled. He didn't need snarky insults from the Capitol's logistics architect, of all people.

"At least I laugh along with my detractors," Julian said. "I wish they'd come up with something new. 'Julian Tercio. Lazy man runs off with his parents' money and estate. He's only got his job because of them. Shame they're dead.' Helps that they're right. But hey, they should try keeping a city of three million running on a daily basis. At least I won't have to hear them complain when they clog the sewage grid again while I'm in District 1…for a week…oh, I wish it were two weeks."

Julian squinted at the television and snatched a cream-covered pastry off of the table. The train lurched, and his attempt to bite into the confection smeared frosting across his chin. As he scooped it off with his hand, he pointed up at the screen and said, "Not taking things too well, is she?"

In the Hunger Games studio, Cicero Templesmith feigned pity as Terra huddled against a mound of rubble and bawled her eyes out. The bloody splotch of Glenn's blood glistened in the flash of a lightning strike.

"Can you believe I sponsored her?" Julian said. "What a waste of my money. Elan Triste is a real con man."

"Is this all you do with your money?" Cyrus scoffed. "Throw it at the Hunger Games?"

"Well, I also host parties I don't attend. But don't sound so cynical. Maybe I saved little Terra Pike's life. Although given the display we're watching, probably not."

"I'm sure that's why you did it. Goodness of your heart."

"Oh, I'm a paragon of virtue, Cyrus," Julian said. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and lowering his brow. "But I did get some tidbits out of Elan, in any case, and maybe it wasn't such a waste. I'm guessing you already know we're working closer with this year's victor going forward?"

Cyrus frowned. Considering where he'd heard that, he guessed who'd been dumb enough to let that secret slip. _Mental note: Do not tell anything private to the Head Gamesmaker_. "I do. Can't say I'm happy about it."

"Come on," Julian said with a wry smile. "You're a smart guy. You at least have principles, even if you stick to them like glue. I like you a helluva lot more than Taurus and Lucrezia. Now, we're going to be working with the victor. That means, just like Creon, there's going to be a lot of people in his – or her – ear. You consider that whoever wins might be a little more sympathetic to a sponsor who helped them get out of the arena alive?"

Julian stuck his thumb towards the screen as Terra cradled her face in her hands. "Just something to think about."

**/ / / / /**

I had to do it. I had no choice. It would have been worse if I hadn't killed him. Glenn wanted to die. Wanted to. It was mercy. I did good.

Every consolation I could think up couldn't wash away the pain. Maybe it was the way Ember looked as if he were worried I'd kill him next, or how I couldn't look away from the bloodstain on the rocks until I'd forced myself to get away from that place. It hadn't hurt so badly when I'd fought off the boy from 7, but this time…this time the weight of what I'd done had come crashing down with the force of every blast of lightning raining down from the sky.

Ember knelt nearby as I lay in the dust beside our crackling fire. He played with his thumbs, turning them over and over while throwing the occasional glance my way. "Terra?" he asked, his voice soft and hesitant. "You alright to get moving?"

I shook my head. The red and gold flames took away some of the pain of this place. I didn't want to wade through the darkness again to get…to go where? Neither of us had a clue where we were going, or even what we were doing. Glenn had been right: Three measly days of training had been nothing but a joke. We weren't prepared.

"What'd he mean?" Ember said after a long silence. "Your district partner. The Flame Gates, what he wanted...all of that. What did he mean by that?"

Ribbons of smoke peeled off in tiny circlets high above the fire. I imagined one was Glenn, leaving this horrible place that he'd hated so much to go somewhere else. Somewhere unknown. Somewhere better.

"He wanted to die," I grunted.

"Why?"

"He believed in the Gods and all that."

"The what?"

"You don't have a church in District 12?"

"A what? No."

I sighed and sat up. Explaining things would at least take my mind off of the blood staining my thoughts. "The Church of the Triad. It's a spiritual thing a lot of people believe in back home, and supposedly in some of the other districts, too. There's three Gods, okay?"

"Three what?"

"Like...like people who watch over everything and make things happen. Like kings of the world. There's the Sun, the Moon, and the Flame."

Ember laughed. "Wait a sec. You mean people actually believe the sun is some sort of king of the world?"

"No, it's a metaphor. They just use the name 'Sun.' The Sun is kinda the overlord, the Moon is the king one, and the Flame is the warrior. They're the Gods of light, and on the other side, the two Gods of darkness oppose them. There's the Night and the Shadow. One's sort of outright evil, the other's more insidious. Each looks over a realm where the dead who lived according to their creeds go to. The Flame Lands are for warriors and fighters, for instance. The Shadow reigns over Oblivion, where cheats and traitors go. The Dark Hell is for the murderers and other really bad people, and according to the people who preach this stuff, it looks sort of like the arena here."

"Do you actually believe this stuff? This sounds ridiculous."

"No. Some people don't. I don't."

"So why does _anyone_? I mean, c'mon. The Sun is not talking to me."

"It's just a metaphor! I already told you that. Besides, I think it's supposed to give people some sort of meaning, like everything they do is worth it, even if it feels bad now. Hope. Like there's someone always there watching -"

A squeak outside interrupted me. The noise made Ember flinch as if we had imminent invaders, and I tensed up a fist. _Probably nothing_. Just to make sure we were alone, I struggled up on me feet and picked up my crowbar. "I'll go look."

I bumped my shoulder into the wall of the burnt-out hut we squatted in, swore, and nearly stepped on a fat black rat. The animal skittered about, its four little legs hustling like a butterfly's wings as it hurried to nowhere in particular. The animal chirped and squealed: Something had spooked it. Off to my left down the debris-strewn street that bisected the ruins, a shadow fidgeted. I rubbed my eyes, squinted, and froze.

A hundred – hundreds – of rats rushed down the path, rushing in a giant wave towards me like some horrible, disease-ridden flood.

"Ember?" I said. "Ember, we should go."

"Why?"

"Get your stuff and let's go! Now!"

The air thickened with the smell of bile and rotting meat. I gagged, covering my mouth and turning away as Ember hurried out of the hut. His eyes bulged.

"Just follow them," he said, pointing towards the rats.

I didn't get a chance to reply. The most horrifying noise I had ever heard, something that sounded halfway between a rusty iron door closing and a coyote baying at the full moon, howled from somewhere down the road. Whether the wail that warbled in and out of clarity was a war cry, a warning, or something else entirely befuddled me. I only knew I wanted no part of it. Ember was already sprinting down the broken cobblestone when I broke out into a run. Rats skittered around my feet, their furry bodies bumping and grazing my ankles.

Ember stopped dead in his tracks at an intersection, and I stumbled over my feet to keep myself from slamming into him. A hot wind raked the back of my neck.

"Which way?" Ember asked. Down the road to our right, the stony ruins faded away into dunes of black sand in the distance. Crumbling watch towers and time-worn tenements decayed to our left as the city grew denser.

"Deeper into the ruins!" I panted, dashing left. My thighs burned, and I prayed we could find a hiding spot among the nooks and shadows of the dead city. The rats burst off in every direction, some slipping into tiny grates hewn into the broken street, others scampering up ruined facades.

Left, right, forward – the world blended into a rush of amorphous black and gray as I ran headlong into the necropolis. A shower of lighting erupted in the distance as a pair of moaning gas bags floated over the ruins. Getting shocked seemed like a nicer fate than whatever was causing that nauseating smell behind me, however. I struggled to keep my stomach's contents down as I ran.

_Crack!_

Ember dashed ahead of me just as the ground gave out beneath my feet. I stumbled and flailed in the air as stones tumbled into the break below. At the last second I reached out, snatching a hold with one hand with my legs dangling in the air.

"Terra!" Ember shouted, bounding backwards and reaching down to help. "Gimme your hand!"

I reached up as my handhold slipped. Flailing, I whipped my hands out in front of me until I grabbed a smaller nook right at the edge of the fracture. A rushing sound echoed in the hole below – water, or something worse. Ember hurried forward, but another long, mournful howl from whatever was chasing us stopped him in his tracks. He glanced up, his eyes gaping, his lips parted in uncertainty and fear.

"Go!" I said, looking below me. I didn't think the fall would hurt me: Maybe fifteen feet below me, a slow-flowing dark fluid coursed through a stone aqueduct. "Ember, just go! I'll meet up with you!"

He bit his lip, glanced back down the street, and dashed away. I was alone again, but if I didn't hurry, something – or someone – far worse would be on me in seconds. Sucking in my breath, I let go of my handhold and plunged into the darkness below.

_Splash!_

_Cold! _The water was freezing! I hit the ground and fell onto my side, spitting and choking as I scrambled to my feet. At least it was only water. I didn't have time to think about my surroundings, however. My crowbar had fallen down into the underground with me, fortunately, so I grabbed my weapon, steadied my resolve, let out a loud exhale, and charged into the dimly-lit corridor ahead.

A sea green glow lit up the subterranean passage. Spores like the ones I'd seen earlier collected all about the tunnel, but in much thicker clouds than the ones that had coalesced around the obelisks above. They smelled of dust and mildew, filling my mouth with the taste of stale bread and old cheese. Greasy ooze dripped from the walls into the water, and tiny lights swam about around my feet. I gripped my weapon tightly and pushed ahead as the corridor turned, cutting me off from any sign of the danger above – and from sight of the sky. I was alone, and I was trapped underground in a graveyard's catacombs.

The tunnel didn't change the further I walked, but the haze and the spores intensified – and my head clouded up more and more with every step I took. After several minutes, it felt as if I was swimming through the air. My eyelids drew down as if weighed by anchors, and I missed my footsteps and stumbled. Macabre shadows danced in front of me in the haze. They were images and people I felt on the verge of picking out, their identities slipping away from my mind's grasp with inches to spare. I heaved and panted in the thickening haze and plowed forward. I had to keep going. I couldn't go back: If I went back, who knew what would emerge to terrorize me from the darkness? I had to keep going through this stuff. Had to. I didn't have a choice.

No choice.

I rounded a bend in the tunnel as the walls leaked gallons of pus. The current underfoot tripped me up, and I slipped onto my hands – but when I looked up, something had changed. I'd stepped into a large, rectangular chamber with an arching ceiling lit up by a swirling cloud of the green haze. It wasn't the most drastic change, however. I wasn't alone anymore.

A girl no taller than my hip watched me from the center of the room. She didn't look more than about five years old, but from her dark brown ponytail to her deep blue eyes and her blue polka-dotted dress, she looked familiar. It was strange. I'd had a dress just like that years ago. The girl held a finger up to her lips and shook her head, backpedaling away from me towards a corner of the chamber.

My mind swirled, but something about the whole situation struck me as oddly normal, as if I expected her to be there. None of it seemed out of place, and for a moment, I forgot I was even in the Hunger Games entirely. I didn't feel much of anything, like I was some observer watching life play out in front of me. My head lurched in confusion.

_Terra. Snap out of it. You're seeing things. It's not real._

A stomping sound made the girl jump, and she spun away from me. The glow from the spores lit up a tall figure in the corner. It was a man dressed in a ratty shirt covered in red dust, his hands clutching a plastic half-gallon jug filled to the brim with a milky white liquid. I sniffed, and the old, familiar smell of palm wine took me another step away from the cobblestone ruins. Something about this man was familiar too, even if I couldn't see his face. Maybe it was the way his veins popped out on his tired, weathered hands, looking all the more prominent in the hazy light, or perhaps the slow, steady, deliberate way he turned towards the little girl who trembled before him.

_Don't turn around all the way_, I thought. He couldn't turn around. Something terrible would happen if he turned around.

The girl shook, as if she knew what was coming next. The green glow glistened in the man's dead white eyes. He dropped his jug to the ground, and it rolled towards me – _sploosh, sploosh, sploosh._ Fear coursed through my veins. _Don't say anything. Don't make him mad. If you get his attention, you'll make him hurt you._

The girl pulled on the man's pant leg.

A gaping hole ripped open in the man's face, howling like the wind in the midst of a towering dust storm back home. Cockroaches tumbled out of the hole, and far away, someone screamed.

I sprinted towards a tunnel opening to my right. The screaming and the howling grew louder and louder, and I clawed at my face as I ran. _Get it out of my head!_ The spores made me choke and cough as I ran, and the smell of wine overwhelmed me with its sickening sweetness.

_Bang!_

A loud thud from up ahead stopped me in my tracks. _Bang!_ I shook my head and held my crowbar out in front, ready to fight off whatever was coming for me, be it the flood of rats, the hole-faced man, or whatever else would come my way. Tributes, even. Those existed.

The source of the banging, however, wasn't coming for me. Red dust swirled around and between the clouds of spores, seemingly billowing out of the craggy ceiling and oozing walls. Ahead, a lone figure stood ramrod-straight, facing the wall. The person, a girl around my age and height by the looks of it, had the same dark ponytail as the little girl in the chamber. A threadbare yellow scarf dangled from around her neck. She didn't make a noise, and I couldn't see her face, but the girl bent backwards, reared up, and slammed her forehead into the wall.

_Bang!_

I gasped and recoiled. She didn't seem to notice. The girl leaned back again and smashed her face into the wall a second time without a grimace or yelp of pain. Her back hunched and her shoulders stooped, but she reared back and smacked her forehead into the stone yet again. _Bang!_

With each step I took forward, the girl slumped down another inch. I held my weapon out to protect myself, but she was far more preoccupied bashing her brains out over and over and over. By the time I passed her by, she was on her knees, still smacking her forehead into the wall. A patch on the stone just above where her face impacted glistened, shining with a bright, silvery hue like the solar panels at home.

_Bang!_

By the time I turned the corner down another corridor, she was lying flat on her stomach. Still the girl tipped her head back, her ponytail swinging behind her as she pressed her face into the wall with as much force as she could muster. _Bap._

Another chamber like the first opened up after a series of winding corridors, and standing in the middle of it was the same girl – or at least one who looked identical to the face-mashing one. She wasn't engaging in self-destruction, however, but standing over a large stone basin, her hand rhythmically moving up and down. The girl chortled with a laugh somewhere between a groaning cackle and a halting moan, stuttering and shattering the frayed ends of my nerves. My mind thickened and flowed like molasses, and when I approached her, the air around me felt like cotton fuzz.

She glanced over her shoulder. Something about her face was so familiar, from her full cheeks to her blue eyes and thin eyebrows, but I just couldn't make it out. She shook her head and smiled as tears flowed down her cheeks. Something wailed atop the basin.

When I caught a glimpse of what was going on, I nearly died of fright. The girl clutched a knife in her hand and jabbed it again and again into the stomach of a boy no older than eighteen. The wound didn't bleed, however, but howled with black gusts of wind that seeped out above him. With each hit the boy groaned and cried out in pain. Like her, he, too, was familiar. His gaunt cheeks and slender build reminded me so much of Glenn, in a way, but the way his shoulders bunched up with packs of muscle mirrored the boy from District 7's stocky frame. His thick arms, his dull eyes, his fine brown hair and rugged brown jacket that the girl's knife had shredded, all of it piqued little familiarities that I couldn't place.

I stared on in grotesque curiosity as the girl stabbed him again and again. I couldn't take my eyes off of the scene. Then, with her knife halfway down for another stroke, the girl stopped. The water around her feet ripped, and she glared at me, her eyes accusatory, her brows furrowed in anger. She smiled, laughed, and held the knife up to her own throat. I thought she'd slice it open, but instead, the entire world exploded.

An inhuman howl blasted the girl and the boy into shatters as slimy pale tendrils rushed at me from the haze. Whatever I'd been watching, it was gone now – and what was attacking me was _very_ real.

I scrambled backwards and flailed with my crowbar. Some sort of giant water beast lurched out of the darkness, its head still concealed in shadow but its many arms whirling in a storm in front of me. One of them slammed down into the water and reached out at me, snaking towards my feet. I screamed and brought down my crowbar.

"_Hroaw!_" the beast howled and heaved forward. Its tentacles were ghastly things, each one as thick as my torso but lined with tiny, marble-sized suckers and sharp, black, needle-like teeth. They flailed at my ankles, and one grabbed hold with a grip like a vise. I yelped as it dug its needles into my skin, pulling me towards the darkness with incredible force. I smacked at it with my weapon, whacking aside another incoming tendril and smashing at the beast with the crowbar's point until it released me with a groaning scream.

I got to my feet and ran. A tentacle lunged at me, missing my feet by millimeters as I rushed towards the nearest corridor exit I could see. Behind me the beast snarled and splashed, with waves lapping at my legs. It wasn't giving up. I had to move.

_Run!_ My feet ached as a godsend opened up down the corridor in front of me – stairs! I sprinted up the cobblestone as the spore-infested haze thinned out and my mind cleared. The beast howled behind me, screaming its inhuman obscenities as I dashed towards the growing light of lightning strikes up above. When I emerged into the open air with the ruins rising around me, the dusty air tasted like honey.

_Who would make a place like that?_ Goosebumps ran down my arms as I glanced back at the dark pit behind me. The beast howled again. I didn't know what I'd seen down there. Whether it was real, some manifestation of my mind, a series of hallucinations, a gamesmaker trick...I didn't know. I didn't want to explore those underground depths for one more second.

"Terra!"

Ember's shout cleared the last of the haze from my mind. I spun as my ally came sprinting up the road, and a wave of relief washed over me. "Ember!" I yelled,, smiling and dashing towards him as something buzzed by my ear.

_Whizz-thump!_

Ember stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes bulged and his mouth gaped. I paused, confused, until I saw the obsidian knife buried halfway up to its hilt in his chest.

"No! Ember!"

He fell to his knees, his face frozen in shock. I didn't know what I was doing. Heat washed over me as I sprinted towards him, desperate to help him to his feet, dead-set on clinging to the one thing in this place that wasn't trying to tear me down.

I didn't get that far. A massive hand grabbed my shoulder and hurled me to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of me as colorful lights danced in front of my eyes. I just made out a towering shadow jumping at me before a blow to my head turned out the lights.


	18. The Price of Pity

_**+ Whoa: Thank you to the huge flurry of reviews, Dancing-Souls, and your latest review, ArtemisCarolineSnow! Fast-paced chapter ahead on the heels of the last one's big word-splurge.**_

**/ / / / /**

A red light shined in the darkness.

Throbbing pain pulsed through my head. It made me double over as I came to, winced, and rubbed my eyes. At least I hadn't died – or if I'd had, I'd gone to the Dark Hell. Lightning still flashed in the sky, thunder still rumbled with its ursine roar, and the hazy clouds above still drifted overhead. Spores danced about in the air here and there, and ashes and bones littered the ground beneath me.

Bones? I rubbed my eyes harder, blinked, and got my bearings. Whatever had happened, I wasn't on the city streets anymore. High granite walls sloped inward and upward all around me. Up above the rim of this hole, a trio of red flares hissed, their smoke trails drifting off into the sky with a nightmarish glow. When I stood up, the spindly gray bones underfoot cracked and splintered. The sound echoed in the pit. Even my breathing sounded deafening down here, as if I'd wake some slumbering creature snoozing in the dark crevasse to my left.

A shot of fear sent waves of heat running down my arms. I was alone, I had none of my gear – shit! Ember – oh gods. I remembered the knife, his wide eyes and shocked expression running in front of my eyes again. Whatever had killed him must have dropped me in here, and I had a strange feeling it wasn't just leaving me to die from thirst over a few days.

I felt woozy as I stumbled towards the nearest wall. Nausea slammed me, but I forced myself to stand up straight. I'd hoped to find handholds in the wall, crooks, crevices, or something I could grip to climb out of this pit. I wasn't dead, after all: The Gamesmakers had to have a reason for letting me live when they'd killed off Ember. I couldn't imagine that some other tribute had dragged me down here to die. Why not just kill me?

If this was some sort of sick test, than I had to figure out how to beat it. I groped along the wall through the shadows, feeling along the course granite for a handhold. Panic ballooned in my gut as I stumbled along the perimeter of the pit. Nothing, nothing, nothing but sharp rock that pricked my fingers and taunted me as it sloped inwards towards the oculus above. The red lights laughed, jeering at me with the promise of a freedom outside my grasp.

I was missing something. I got down on all fours, crawling around the bottom of the pit. Bone splinters poked my palms with time-worn needles. The gods only knew whose remains I was straddling, whether they were some Gamesmaker invention or part of an actual mass grave that beckoned for me to join it.

A cold gust blew up from the crevasse as I reached the edge of the pit. Shadow faded into pitch black darkness in its bowels. _Come_, an imaginary voice whispering from somewhere deep in its inky depths. _You've tried your hardest. You've fought. You've killed. There's no shame in failure. _

It was a tempting thought, certainly preferable to wasting away down here if I couldn't figure out how to get up these cliffs all around me. Thoughts of Glenn drifted through my mind. _There's nothing for you if you win_, I imagined him saying. _Do you want to spend year after year caring about kids, only to watch them die? Do you want to wade around a district that doesn't care about you for the rest of your life? Come on, Terra. Make it easy on yourself. You're already screwed._

I shuddered and turned away from the rift. Maybe Glenn was right – maybe there wasn't anything waiting for the kid who walked away from this place. Maybe I'd end up like Daud or Finch, watching kid after kid die in horrible ways every year, but I wanted to live. I didn't want to see what came next just yet, and if the Gamesmakers were testing my will to live, I'd give it my best shot.

I don't know how long passed – an hour, two hours, ten, it all felt the same. Every time I walked along the edge of the wall, feeling up every inch of it for a route out of here, nothing turned up. The bone-covered floor held no secret passage, and when I dipped my hand down into the crevasse, it met only icy gusts from the deep.

A chilling realization ran through my head as I stared up at the red flares above. This looked less and less like a test for _me_…and more and more like a test for the other tributes on the surface. If so, I wasn't just trapped here. I was _bait_.

I laid down on the carpet of bones and gripped my sides. _Help. Please_.

Eternity passed. Hunger gnawed at my guts, and my tongue dried into a thick, crispy log. My head still throbbed, and every now and then, dots of light would bob and weave in the darkness. I wasn't just seeing things; I was hearing them, too. Faint sounds reverberated down from somewhere above. I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the world and clutched my arms tighter to my chest.

The sounds grew louder.

"…doesn't look right. Why d'you wanna look so bad?"

I sat up in a flash. I hadn't imagined that, I was sure of it. Someone was up there, and unless they were talking to themselves, they weren't alone.

A higher voice, a girl, answered the first speaker: "I just want to look! Just hold on a sec."

Heat flushed across my face. I needed their help to get out of here, but the odds weren't in my favor. Whoever was up there, they had no reason to trust me, let alone help me – and all it would take would be one shot from an arrow or one well-thrown knife and I was finished. I scuttled back towards the lip of the crevasse, peering down into the darkness and weighing my options. It was dark enough down here that they might not see me, but if they did, that gorge was the only hiding spot I had. Could I climb into it without plunging to my death?

"Delfin, gimme the flashlight. It's dark."

_Wait a minute…_

A sudden white flash blinded me. I stumbled back, shielding my eyes with my arm and scooting as close to the edge of the crevasse as I could.

"What the…" said the speaker above me. "Wait. Wait, Delfin, get over here!"

I shuddered. I remembered that name. I knew who was up there, and I knew they were more than capable of killing me. My eyes adjusted to the light as a scowling, well-built boy sidled up alongside a lithe girl with orange hair above. He planted a spear into the dust with a _thump_ and said, "What am I s'posed to be looking at?"

"Look! It's the girl from the chariot behind us back in the parade."

Tethys. She'd spoken to me like a colleague, not a competitor, back in the garage before the chariot parade. That felt like eternity ago, and I had no idea if the girl from District 4 felt so sympathetic towards me now. My breath froze in my chest and my leg trembled as I waited on them: It was their move now, whether they'd help me, kill me, or leave me.

Her district partner sure didn't. Delfin groaned and stamped his foot, saying, "Tethys, c'mon. Let's go. There isn't anything we can use down there."

"Delfin, look at her!" Tethys said, furrowing her brow and waving her finger in my direction. "That'd just be a dick move to leave her down there. How'd she get down there, anyway?"

"Tethys, _leave it_. This is stupid."

The girl pushed her partner aside and bent down at the lip of the pit. "Hey!" she called down to me. "You okay?"

I shook my head and tried to say something, but the words lumped in my throat. Delfin's glare made me want to shrivel into the gorge.

"Your name's Terra, right?" Tethys called down, and before I could answer, she turned back to her partner. "Gimme the rope."

Delfin sighed, held a fist to his forehead, and said, "Look…I know you didn't like that last girl getting it – "

"You shanked her. Obviously I didn't like it."

"Do you even get it? Someone else has to die if we're gonna keep going, Tethys! You don't even know this girl, and if she's dumb enough to get stuck in a hole – "

"Do you get it? You're turning into a murderer!"

"I'm _doing_ what we need to do to stay alive!"

"Delfin, the girl from 6 was sleeping!"

"And what if she would have found us later, hm? She had a knife! Open your damn eyes! She could've – "

"Stop with the excuses!" Tethys snarled, her face inches from Delfin's. "I'm not going to let you kill everything left and right just so you can say it's good for me! I am _not_ a monster, and I didn't think you were, either!"

Delfin backed up, uncurling his fist and doing his best to reason. "Look," he said. "You start taking on charity cases, then what happens if…whatever her face is here, Terra, runs and does something stupid? Is she even fourteen?"

"Well, at least I'm not stabbing people," Tethys said, every syllable oozing bitterness. "Maybe I can do a little good for someone else, even if you can't. If you really care about me, then give me the rope. Now."

He sighed and pulled off his backpack. "You can figure out how to get your lost cause outta there," he said, tossing it at her chest.

Tethys yanked a long, thick, woolen rope out of the bag and uncoiled it. "Still there?" she yelled to me as she flung the rope down into the pit. "Tie this around your waist and between your legs, like a harness. I'll pull you out."

I didn't have a choice…but as I took the rope in my hands, caution surged through my mind. "What happens when I get up there?" I asked, just loud enough so she could hear. I glanced up at Delfin, who stormed around the edge of the pit, spear in hand and out in front as if he were eager to stab the next thing that moved.

"Don't worry about him," Tethys said. "Just come up. I'm not gonna hurt you, and I won't let him, either."

Better than nothing. I pulled the rope around my hips and underneath one leg, tying it off as best as I could in front of me and grabbing on tight. _Yank!_ I yelped as Tethys jerked the rope up. It dug at my thigh, but I winced and bore the pain.

"Tethys…" Delfin said, his voice suddenly lacking all of its bravado.

"What?"

"Hurry up. C'mon."

"Why? Are you in a hurry?"

Just then, I heard it too. It sounded like a chorus of sopranos all cheering at once, and it took me a second to figure out what was making the noise above: Rats. Hundreds of them. _Oh no._ The rope dug painfully against my thigh as Tethys swore, jerking me up with harder and faster pulls.

"Tethys!"

"I'm going!"

I gritted my teeth as the edge of the pit inched closer and closer. Falling from here would kill me – only darkness swirled beneath me as Tethys hoisted me higher. The sound of rats squirming and running was overwhelming. One of them tumbled into the pit, falling past my arm and flailing its little legs as it fell into the inky blackness below. Suddenly, everything went silent – just before a mighty, sorrowful roar deafened me.

I was high up enough now that I could see some of the ground above, where crumbling stone statues stuck out of the black desert sand. Atop the nearest dune, a massive black shadow rushed in fast, like a tidal wave made of billowing cloud. It roared and wailed as Delfin held his spear aloft.

"Tethys…" he said.

"Gotcha!" Tethys yelled, grabbing my arm and pulling me up onto the sand. "C'mon, run! Delfin!"

"You don't gotta tell me!" he shouted, pivoting and sprinting after us as the darkness rushed in.

My legs ached and sparks flitted in front of my eyes, but I kept running. Maybe those two didn't know what that shadow was capable of, but it had killed Ember – and I knew it could kill all three of us if we stayed here. If Tethys hadn't taken pity on me, it would have killed me, too.

I sucked in a deep breath and ran.


	19. The Negotiators

_**+ Thanks to ScoutMeminger15, ArtemisCarolineSnow, Dancing-Souls, and MyleyHxox for the reviews, and to new followers and old readers alike! Sorry about the long wait – I ended up re-doing about half this chapter to accommodate some later events I added to the storyboard. Questions, comments, concerns – always appreciated! Enjoy!**_

**/ / / / / **

Cyrus had never liked District 4.

People in the capitol preened over the sea's bounty. The seafood, the shells, the exotic creatures caught and imported as pets, it was all enough for them. For Cyrus, the place stunk of boat oil and salt water, and the best transportation around was just as likely to give you seasickness as get you to your destination in one piece. The cackling of the gulls circling overhead on the docks made him clench his teeth.

This wasn't a place for a city boy who'd grown up surrounded by the neon-lined towers of District 1 and now walked in the shade of the Capitol's silver spires. Given the circumstances, it wasn't the time, either.

Cyrus had done his best to conceal the Capitol in him. He wasn't much of a public figure among the districts, and he'd gone even further by letting gray stubble cover his chin and cheeks and his thinning hair run off in all directions atop his head. He'd had a Peacekeeper pick up the tawny tunic that covered him from shoulder to mid-thigh from a vendor in Manheim's Gulch, the poor residential zone on the far eastern side of the district home to thousands of cannery workers and machine technicians. He'd even told his Peacekeeper escorts to keep a wide berth, scouting the docks with hidden snipers and camouflaged aerial drones rather than pushing aside crowds in force with all the subtlety of a killer whale. Even with all that, Cyrus felt the sideways looks and hushed whispers from passersby.

Maybe it was his smell: Try as he might, Cyrus doubted even a year's worth of work would scrub out the Capitol's artificial pheromones and aromas that wafted down the city's streets. That, or he was just getting too old to remember how to blend in with a foreign crowd.

An unpleasant cognitive dissonance plagued Cyrus's mind as he walked down the docks. The taverns and storefronts were run-down and covered in silt, adorned with paint peeling from creaking wooden signs and smeared with grease and grime. So many barnacles clung to the piers, it was hard to tell that wood still supported the docks. Yet despite the dilapidation and ubiquitous bird poop, the crowds surged with a youthful energy. Bar patrons clustered around splinter-covered tables cradled mugs of sloppy brown drink and laughed like children. Old men and women argued with each other like they were preparing for a political convention. The people of District 4 were coming alive as the infrastructure crumbled.

Cyrus wasn't looking for just any bar, though. The Western Whale was the last establishment along the largest row of piers among the docks, its tables and chairs much emptier than the other watering holes. Cyrus knew that had to be no coincidence. It was a welcome.

He felt for the pistol strapped to his abdomen. The last thing he needed was to start something, but according to everything Lucrezia's information had told him, this Rio West wasn't a rash man. Hard, perhaps, cynical, influential, but not rash. He'd earned the district's respect through experience and time captaining ships, and a strong leader could go a long way in relieving District 4's tension.

Still…even the most charismatic of men could only hold the mob at bay for so long.

The pub's blue wooden doors creaked as Cyrus pushed them open. A haze filled the interior of the tavern, as if a crowd had been smoking inside just a minute prior. A lonely glass half-filled with brackish grog sat on the damp, dark bar to Cyrus's left, accompanied only by a dirty, wrinkled washcloth. Barstools here and there were pulled out, with one lying on its side in the corner of the room. The groaning aluminum blades of a tired fan overhead serenaded the empty tavern with a droning _thump-thump-thump._ Whoever had left, they'd left behind the smells of salt water, sturgeon, and sweat.

"You didn't do a good job looking the part."

Cyrus wheeled around. Behind him, a statuesque women with silky, silver-blonde hair kicked her feet up on a table and watched him with half-closed green eyes. "The guys who wear that kinda outfit wear real beards," she said, shaking a glass full of a crimson drink that looked far too Capitolian for this bar. "Longer than the stubble the fishermen and boatmen wear, but not too long that it'll get caught in the factory machinery. You're doing it wrong if the Odairs are your guide."

"Ms. Larson," said Cyrus. He clenched his jaw and a fist. "You clear out this place?"

Brooke Larson laughed. "You were a lot less grumpy when old Snow was still in charge. That was, what, six, seven years ago since the last time Seneca Crane did a Games? Made us all come in every year? I like this new Gamesmaker much better. I can sit here every summer and not give a shit while Finnick goes to see the city. Didn't think I'd ever even see you again."

Cyrus narrowed his eyes and took a step back. She'd been expecting him. Brooke had grown up a lot since she'd won the 81st Hunger Games, but an aura of danger and cunning still hung about her. "Someone told you I was coming here?"

"Not her. They told me."

Rio West stepped up to the bar behind them. He clenched the ragged washcloth and ran it over his arm's leathery skin, pausing over his hand to squeeze out a few drops of spilled beer between his fingers. "I know who you are. I'd have thought you'd barge in here with a phalanx of Peacekeepers, dressed in some fancy robe. You get a little of my respect, even if you do have a pair of snipers watching through the windows."

"Mister West?"

"Rio West. Haven't been much of a mister for years."

Cyrus frowned and sat down across from Brooke. "I hear you're an influential man. Informed one, too, by the looks of it. How'd you know I was coming?"

"No one you'd know. I'll tell you my sources if you tell me yours," Rio said with a smile.

"I'll keep my secrets, thanks."

"It's better that way. Every man should keep some secrets," Cyrus said, taking a seat on a dirty tabletop and letting his legs hang off the edge. "We like our privacy here, Cyrus, just as we don't like your formalities. Why don't you skip the rest of the introduction and get to business?"

"At least let the man have a drink, Rio," Brooke interjected.

She grabbed a glass from the neighboring table and had poured it half-full of whatever she was drinking before Cyrus stopped her. "Business is fine," he said, but he didn't trust Brooke's pouring, either. He remembered what she'd done fifteen years ago. He could still see her catching fish after fish from the crystal-clear river in the arena's glen to feed her allies. He also still saw her crushing the tiny red mushrooms into the fish as they cooked…and recalled the bodies of her allies, their faces blue and gasping for breath that never came.

No sane man would accept her offers.

"I'd have thought it'd be obvious why I'm here," Cyrus said, leaning back in his chair and glancing out the window. A glint of glass shined off in the distance from atop a building. Security was still watching. "You had a big commotion the other day. I'm not going to hide from facts. I know tension's been high here."

"A commotion?" Rio said with a wry grin. "Dead little girl washes up on the dock, and someone parks her body out for everyone to see, right alongside a warning to all of us. Little bit more than a commotion."

"And you think – "

"Not even the first time something like that's happened," Brooke cut in. "It's these little incidents. Guy found a couple out on the edge of the Gulch. Bullets in their chest. Didn't have no contraband, nothing illegal. Just shot. Only your people have guns around here. Peacekeepers don't even have the decency to tell us why they're killing people anymore. You think that might make people mad?"

Cyrus paused, held a finger out, and said, "Look, I've already gone over the Peacekeeper records on my way here. There's nothin' in there about any killings recently. They haven't executed anyone, haven't been dragging them about the docks as punishment…hell, by the sound of it, they're trying to play it loose and give you guys some breathing space. They're well-trained. They're not stupid enough to shake a hornet's nest."

"Of course they're not going to record it!" Brooke cackled. "Not when they do it to get their rocks off!"

"Or if it's nothin' but a crazed and sadistic local, looking to make things worse!" Cyrus countered. Heat flashed across his face.

Rio held out his palm in front of Brooke. "Calm down. And Cyrus, I'm well aware of Peacekeeper training. I know they're disciplined. And I know that they can sometimes take things too far, too. I remember District 8."

He sat back, pulling his washcloth between his fingers and closing his eyes. "I was friends with the mayor's brother then. What was it, about twenty years ago? You must've been alongside old Snow by then. Heard it all from my friend, courtesy of the mayor. Peacekeepers take things too far, start seeing everyone else as the enemy, and turn a short jail sentence or a fine into a few hangings. Suddenly everyone thinks they're next for doing something as simple as going out after a curfew. What did you think was going to happen then? Anything but three hundred dead, a third of them Peacekeepers?"

"Now," Rio continued, leaning forward and staring Cyrus right in the eyes. "Way I hear it from Brooke, District 8's not full of the most thick-skinned bunch in Panem. Not so much here. Here, we hallow no man. Not me. Not Brooke. Not the Odairs. Not you. And not the man you bow to."

"Don't push me, West."

"I think you know the game around here, Cyrus," Rio said. His words weren't so respectful anymore, but full of steel and ice. "It's not the kind of games you're used to in your silver towers. Here we speak as family. It's a voluntary hierarchy, captain and crew, not master and servant. When you or your Peacekeepers try to upset that balance, then I find it a little hard to convince everyone to hold back. And that's why you're really here, isn't it? You want me to hold them back?"

"I'm just looking to keep the peace."

Rio frowned and folded his hands. "I respect that you're man enough to listen. Old Snow wouldn't have done the same if he sat there. You already know how to keep the peace, though. We live with your rule. We live with your Hunger Games. But people can only take so much fear before they feel like they have nothing to lose."

He rocked back in his chair until the seat back rested against the table behind him. "You're a smart man, Cyrus. You wouldn't have lasted so long if you weren't. Things go back to normal, and I'll do my best to temper the crowd. I can't promise anything if your people won't give us the same courtesy."

**/ / / / /**

The darkness held back at the edge of the city.

My sides burned as I stumbled to keep up with Delfin and Tethys. Those two had sprinted through avenue after ruined avenue, and it had taken all my breath – and a little encouragement from Tethys – to stay behind them. My head throbbed with every step.

"Stop," Delfin growled as the streets turned to black sand and scattered stone blocks replaced the ruined concourse. "Hold up here."

I grasped my knees and winced, thankful for the chance to catch my breath as whatever chased us receded back into the night. Just as I started to ease the pain in my side, however, a rough hand gripped my shoulder and threw me down. Pain exploded through the back of my head like a shot from the arena's cannons.

"The hell was that thing?" Delfin snarled. His face was an inch from mine when I opened my eyes, his teeth clenched and his brow furrowed. "What was that and why the hell were you even down in that pit?"

"Delfin!"

"Tethys, would you just _shut up for a minute?_"

"Why don't you?" Tethys shouted. She shoved Delfin off of me and kicked sand at him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Me? I am looking out for _you!_"

"And what, you think she's going to kill us?" Tethys laughed and rolled her eyes.

I swallowed my words and looked on as they argued. Tethys clearly wasn't at ease with this whole killing business, even if she looked the part of a Hunger Games star. Now wasn't the time to admit that the arena had given me a crash course on the subject.

"Finnick picked you because you said you were willing to do what you had to do to get out of here!" Delfin snapped at Tethys, waving his finger at her face. "And ever since we step foot in this place, now you're all the sudden so concerned with keeping your hands clean."

"Okay, but at least I'm not afraid of everything that moves!" she yelled back at him. "You keep saying these dumb things. Oh, you're looking out for us. You care. Well, you certainly don't care about anything or anyone else, I guess!"

"Look, this is not the time to get all holy!"

"Holy? That's what you call being a decent person? I didn't spend ten years growing up with you to watch you become some sort of…some beast or something! You said we wouldn't team up with Acheron because he was just like that!"

"And I am not like him, I am not – "

"You've acted just like that the past who knows how many days we've been here!"

I sized up the situation as they screamed at each other. If I'd have felt better, I might have tried to run for it right then. Tagging along with two people who were at each other's throats, even if they were from the same district and supposedly teammates, seemed like a recipe for disaster down the line. And yet…clearly Tethys was trying to hold on to her morals, even if Delfin was taking the pragmatic approach. I could use her, yet I sympathized with him. As much as I hated to admit it, Delfin was probably right about things: About the arena, about killing, about me.

Even so, he clearly cared about Tethys. I'd seen it as early as the chariot parade. I had to take advantage of any opportunity I could find, and his weakness was a big opportunity just waiting in front of me.

"Please," I interrupted just as Tethys renewed her screaming. "Please, I'm just trying to stay alive, okay? Same as you. I don't want to hurt anyone.

They both stopped to look at me, so I took my luck a step further. "Look, my district partner died in front of my face. I just…I can't…" I widened my eyes as much as possible and looked right at Tethys. "You don't have to help me, but please just let me go. I won't bother you, I swear. I'll just run off somewhere. You won't have to worry about me. Someone else will probably just murder me anyway."

Tethys stuck out her lip and glowered at Delfin. "There's what, eight left? Including us?" she said.

"If we haven't missed a cannon," sighed Delfin, closing his eyes and clutching a hand to his forehead. I had a feeling he was powerless to stop Tethys's train.

"I'm gonna do something good before I win or die," said Tethys. "And so are you."

"I'm done arguing with you. Fine."

Tethys scowled and pulled me up by the hand. "C'mon Terra. You can stick with us." She glanced over at Delfin and added, "If there's really just eight or so of us left in here, we'll know when it's down to just us three. Then we can break up, do whatever happens then. 'Til then, we'll be fine together."

"Thank you," I whispered, holding onto her hand just a moment longer than necessary. "Tethys – thanks. Really."

She was a kind girl and she meant well, but I just knew that sometime soon, Tethys was going to run into a cruel dose of reality in the arena – whether it was from another tribute, from Delfin, or from me. I'd cared about Ember. I'd even cared about Glenn. Both of them had died in horrible fashion, and I wasn't going to follow in their footsteps. I'd survived on luck alone so far, but if we really were down to the final eight, I had to stop caring so much and start thinking instead.


	20. Admissions

_**+ Thanks for the review, Dancing-Souls! I've been intentionally keeping the progress of the Games (ie deaths, kids remaining, etc) dark, due to the arena's construction, but the first part of this chapter will give a little fill-in to where we're at…along with keeping the Capitol plot going. Also, this chapter is a lot longer than I anticipated. Big backstory chapter.**_

"Do you have to fidget?"

Galan Green drummed his fingers on the table inside the Presidential Mansion's Assembly Hall. The air conditioning hardly helped keep out the oppressive heat of the summer afternoon, as the bright Capitol sun shined in and turned the room into a hothouse. Across the table with arms folded, Lucrezia sat as still as the crystal statues lined up along the walls. Her stare bothered Galan. Maybe she was Creon's spymaster, but did she have to make it so obvious in person? He could feel the paranoia oozing out of her gaping eyes, as if she thought he'd set off a bomb at any minute.

"Didn't think we'd have to wait so long," Galan said with a forced smile.

Lucrezia didn't return the gesture. "Taurus is a busy man."

"And so am I. I'm running this thing called the Hunger Games. You might've heard of it."

"So do you have to fidget?"

Galan scowled as the door slammed open. All six-foot-five of Taurus Sharpe strolled through the door, his midnight-black hair shined and coifed, his eyebrows narrowed with an eagle's glare. He wasn't alone. Golden sunlight glistened off of Creon Snow's greying hair. Panem's president didn't wait for any ceremony from his counsel: He took the first seat he found and propped his elbows up on the waxed mahogany table. His tunic looked radiant to Galan, all silver and blue in the colors of the house of Snow.

"I don't have all day to talk," began Creon before Taurus had even taken a seat. "Your media follows me around like a puppy, Galan."

The Head Gamesmaker threw up his hands. "I told them to stick to the tributes today, and I –"

"Well, you've got them after me. Forget it. Let's get down to business."

Taurus folded his arms and stared straight at Galan. The Head Gamesmaker had a bad feeling about where this was going: Without Julian and Cyrus on his side, he was outnumbered – and facing the president, something that he hadn't expected. It felt like all eyes were watching him for the slightest slip-up.

"I haven't been keeping track much of your little games," said Creon, spitting out the last word like it was a curse. "But Taurus tells me you've got something useful planned for all the expense. I admit, I'm getting a little tired of this whole circus, Galan. My father might have tolerated spending ten days in the summer on nothing but games, but I'm not going to shut down this city every year just for entertainment. I want some actual results out of this."

Galan paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. _Not a good start_. "I…for results, you know, the Games are good to remind the districts –"

"They're not doing a very good job keeping them in line, Gamesmaker, if I have to send Cyrus out to keep the peace in District 4!"

"There is…" Galan stuttered. He clenched his fist and his jaw. "We're down to eight tributes right now. If District 4's the priority, we have both of them alive – if you want, we can have one of them win."

"One of _them_ won just last year," Lucrezia purred. She watched Galan through half-closed eyes, like a mountain lion strutting before cornered prey. "You want to give a district full of anarchists another rallying point?"

Heat flushed Galan's face. "If you think I'm just bending over –"

"No, you're not," Taurus interjected. His voice was iron and ice. "District 12 chafes under the renewed pox outbreak. You have no trouble killing off their boy just yesterday with that monster of yours in the arena. Now, we're left wondering if you've even paid attention to what I've recommended about our victor this year, Gamesmaker."

"Look, I know what you want."

"I don't much think you do. District 4's useless as a winner. What are we getting out of these others? The same old same old?"

"I'm inclined to agree," said Creon. "I might not have paid much attention the past week or so, but District 1 and 2 are the last of our problems. They're loyal. They can sacrifice. Same with District 5. You've kept around a girl from their district for how long? For what end? In ninety-six years, we haven't so much as sniffed trouble from them."

Galan waved his hand in the air and leaned back in his chair. He hadn't expected an inquisition. Coriolanus Snow had paid close attention for years to the Games. The man had intervened a number of times in outcomes, yet he'd always found some way to turn winners to his advantage, whether that was forcing the pretty victors into prostitution or pressing others into doing favors for the Capitol's elite – no matter how strange the requests. Clearly, his son wasn't so interested in personal gain from the Games. Creon, it seemed, saw the Games less as an opportunity for individual power and more as a vehicle to stabilize the districts.

Damn it. He shouldn't have had the beast kill off that boy from 12. _Shoulda killed 5 instead…_

"I've given who wins some thought –" Galan started.

"I hope so," Taurus cut in again with a scowl. Galan hated that gaze. He'd rather Creon chew him out for an hour that look Taurus in those black eyes of his. It felt as if they'd suck him away to some dungeon deep under the bowels of the Capitol, where they shut away subversive avoxes and the like. "I'd hate to have to call Seneca Crane back up."

Galan bit his lip. "Let's not get hasty, 'kay? We still got District 3 and 9 in play. The kid from 3 in particular is a smart guy. He handles his business, he's got a good shot of getting to the endgame."

"So let's say that's what happens," Creon said, cracking a knuckle. "What do we get out of District 3 winning?"

"First off, the boy's smart. He's figured out how to carve out a niche in the arena. He's got food, survival tools. He's even watched the other tributes and kept an eye on a few of them, all while never being seen. We're looking for an informant in their ranks, and someone who doesn't have any feelings for the other districts. This boy's not a team player. Maybe he doesn't trust us, but he's got no reason to trust any of the other districts, either – or the victors. We can work with that. It'll take some persuasion, some reinforcements, but we can work with him."

Creon snorted. "That's a lot of hypotheticals."

"It's also the chance to cash in some chips with District 3," Galan went on. "They haven't won in forever. It starts off your first Hunger Games with a show of mercy, sir. You give the underdogs a chance to win."

"Too much mercy and we look soft to dissenters," said Lucrezia.

Creon dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "It's a fair point, and I'm not going to make too much out of a game. District 4's my top concern."

"My spies tell me the fishing captains are restless," Lucrezia said, leaning forward. "The talk in the district is reaching treasonous levels."

"Purging them won't solve that problem," Taurus countered. "It's not just one or two voices, like you seem to think. It's a down economy in the district, it's poor hauls for the last three years, it's several incidents with Peacekeepers in just the last few months, and then there's the only thing the Head Gamesmaker got right: We're in a period of change. We can't afford to think removing one or two boisterous men will solve our problems."

"We can't tolerate dissent," scoffed Lucrezia.

"Nor foolishness," Taurus said. His furrowed brow was enough to quiet her counter argument. "But we might be past that point already." He turned to the president, his eyes narrowing and his fingers clenched. "I'm not sure Cyrus Locke's…permissive view of the situation will do anything to quiet District 4's discontent."

Creon paused, slouched forward, and said, "Cyrus has served well for two decades. He knows people. He'll settle them down."

"All the best to him if he does," Taurus said. "But if he doesn't? How long can we afford to let District 4 pretend it can stand up to us with impunity?"

For just a moment, Galan saw doubt cross Creon's face. "If he doesn't, we'll have to re-evaluate things. We've had peace for almost a century. They'll settle down or I'll make them settle."

**/ / / / /**

"Something's on fire."

I could smell Tethys's suspicion. The air thickened the farther we hiked into the city outskirts, reeking of sulfur and charcoal. A red glow lit up the horizon. Rising clouds of smoke drifted up into the night sky, eliciting a furious flurry of lightning bolts. Thunder boomed.

"At least it's bright. Sorta," Delfin grunted. He kicked a rock up the hill as we trudged up it. "Just for once, I'd like to see the stupid sun."

I sighed. It was hard remembering what the sun felt like, even though I'd spent my whole life atop District 5's hot desert. Our here amid the black sand and midnight sky, it felt like the sun had never existed. Nor any of those other comforts, really – the Capitol's fancy showers with their dozens of temperature settings and fanciful, fluorescent shampoos seemed like quaint fantasies. I could barely fathom my shiny dress from the interview with Cicero Templesmith as I felt the ragged holes in my trousers. My shirt was torn up in places, splattered with blood and other spots I couldn't identify. More and more, this horrible, hellish place was invading my understanding what the world was supposed to be.

"Does it have to be so damn hot?" Delfin grumbled as he tromped up to the top of the hill.

"It's been like that since we started," I mumbled.

He sighed and twirled his spear in his hand. I didn't feel comfortable that he was the only one of us armed. Tethys trusted him, and she'd saved me, but I still had the feeling that Delfin prided his survival over hers, no matter how long their history together stretched back. Only one person would escape from her alive, after all.

"They could at least have some rain or something," Delfin complained. "Just something to change up the whole damn dreary – oh. Whoa."

He stopped on a dime at the top of the hill, his face filling with confusion, his eyes wide and questioning. When I hurried up the last few paces to the top of the hill, I saw it too. The Gamesmakers had torn up the outskirts of the arena, where I'd run to on my first day and committed my first kill. The loose scree, the thick sand, the hills and depressions, they were all gone.

In its place was fire.

Rivers of molten rock reached out like bright, burning incisions in the scabby black land. Lava seethed and roiled, kicking up tendrils of smoke that rose high into the sky. Angry red fingers reached out to the horizon and beyond. The Gamesmakers were making it clear: We weren't going that way.

"Didn't you say you went out there originally?" Tethys said, watching on as a large, flat rock tumbled over and over in a fast-moving lava stream.

I shook my head. "It wasn't like this before. It was just…just sand and stuff. Rocks."

"Guess going back to the Cornucopia's off the table," Delfin said. "Ahh. They're fencing us into the city with the others and whatever that…thing…that was chasing us was."

He creased his brow and narrowed his eyes. Before he had the chance to say another word, Tethys grabbed his arm. "Hey," she said, lowering her voice to little more than a whisper. "We'll figure it out, okay?"

"Yeah, I just don't know about heading back into that thing."

"We've gotten this far. Just listen, okay? We'll be fine."

I wrung my hands as Tethys reassured Delfin. Queasiness stirred somewhere deep inside of me. Maybe it was longing or envy of the feeling I could hear in Tethys's quiet, confident words, or the fraction of a second of vulnerability that crossed Delfin's eyes, but all of the sudden I felt as alone as I'd been in the arena. I'd talked and even laughed with Ember, but I'd never felt something like that. I'd never felt anything like that even back home in District 5, and most likely, I never would get the chance.

_Damn it._ I looked away and sniffed. The emptiness gnawing away in my stomach threatened to overwhelm the screaming of a rational voice in my head:_ Don't you cry in front of them, Terra. This just means they'll throw you away even sooner than you thought. _

I hated this place.

"Hey."

Delfin stirred me out of my self-loathing. He let his spear trail in the sand behind him as he tromped down the hill, back towards the black stone blocks of the city's outskirts. Tethys trailed a few steps behind him, but paused just for a moment as she looked back at me. A fret crossed her lips. "You okay?" she mouthed.

Ugh. "I'm fine," I whispered, glancing down at my feet. "Fine."

She paused for a second before nodding, but she'd seen my hesitation. In another place, in any other time, Tethys and I could have been friends. She had a gentle heart and cared for people, that was certain, but I couldn't shake the paranoia and suspicion that this arena stirred in me. I'd seen too many things, _done_ too many things, and now even a look of concern from Tethys's eyes made me shiver in disgust at my weakness and tremble in fear of Delfin's weapon.

I wanted to say so many things, but I only walked. For an hour, I could do nothing but walk.

Delfin stopped at the first sign of the necropolis's broken cobblestone road peeking through the black sand. All around us, crumbling stones littered the ground as if a mountain had exploded across the desert. Up ahead, however, the jagged, haunting buildings of the city leered out at us, teasing of more supplies and hiding spots but also teeming with danger.

_Boom!_

A cannon roared. In the distance to our right, one of the howling, milky-white gas bags that had chased Ember and I earlier drifted through the sky, raining lightning bolts down on some poor kid far away. It was the first cannon I remembered hearing since Glenn…since I'd killed Glenn.

Since _I _killed.

"Those things creep me out," Deflin said, pointing towards the gas bag as it moaned and screeched high in the sky. "Where do the Gamesmakers come up with this things?"

"I think that's kinda the point," I said.

He shrugged. "Yeah. Let me know if either of you see any happy things any time soon. Let's hold up here for the night. Or for the…okay, everything is night. Let's just hold up here."

At least my two new allies weren't short on supplies. After starving my way through the desert flats during those first few days, I was happy to have a meal, even if it just was canned beans and rice. When the whole world seemed out to get me, when even my feelings turned on in myself, a full stomach was as nice a respite as I could imagine. It was funny how something I could take for granted back in District 5 was such a luxury. Back at the Capitol, this wouldn't have qualified as a snack.

We'd barely finished eating before Delfin fell asleep.

"You can sleep if you wanna," Tethys said, wrapping her hands around her knees and burying her feet in a pit of sand. "I'll watch for now. I can just wake him up when I'm tired."

I shook my head. "I'm not really tired either."

She gave me a sad little smile. "Don't trust me?"

"No, I do."

"I don't blame you. You just met us, really," she said. She ran her hands through her hair and sighed, and in a bright flash of lightning, shadows raced across Tethys's face. The divots under her eyes turned into deep depressions, and the flash made her high cheekbones seem as if they stuck out from her skin. "It's kinda hard even to trust myself right now."

I lay down on my side, rested my head against Delfin's backpack, and asked, "Why? You two're doing fine."

"It's – "

A soft, low beeping cut her off. It was faint at first. When I glanced up, however, a flickering green light caught my eye. Another flash of lightning lit up a silver parachute fluttering in the air behind it. _Sponsors_! My heart jumped. I'd completely forgotten about sponsorships, given how I'd stumbled my way through the arena so far. For that matter, I'd almost entirely forgotten Finch, Daud, and Elan. It seemed like I'd met them a lifetime ago.

Tethys saw it too. "Probably just more food or socks," she said.

My excitement died at once. _Duh. Of course it's not for you_, the voice in my head said. Of course those two would be getting sponsors. Delfin was a tough guy, a confident guy, someone clearly at home with that spear he carried. As for Tethys, well…young guys in the Capitol wouldn't have a problem sponsoring her. Her red hair was a mess and dust cloaked her face, but I still remembered her shiny high heels and flowing turquoise dress from the interviews. She was a pretty girl underneath all that muck.

I was just Terra.

Tethys snatched the parachute out of the air and cracked open the matte gray case it carried. She looked perplexed for a minute, looked up at me, and said, "It's for you."

"What?"

"Someone else doesn't trust me, I guess."

Nervousness crept up inside me as I took the package. Why would someone in the Capitol sponsor me?

More questions than answers cropped up as I opened the case. Inside lay a curved dagger longer than my forearm, the blade jet black with a jagged red streak inlaid from hilt to tip. Someone had carved a crude "5" into the stark white grip. Whoever had sent this would have seen my allies by now, so Tethys was right: They sure didn't trust my allies. Definitely not Finch and her kindheartedness. Maybe Elan, but I had a guess who'd sent this kind of gift my way. I just didn't know how he'd afforded it.

_You're good at killing people_, I imagined Daud saying somewhere in the Capitol. _So go kill them with a real weapon._

"Somebody likes you," said Tethys.

I shoved the package off to the side next to Delfin's pack. "I don't even know how to use that."

"Not really that hard. Just…stabby!"

Tethys reached over and pushed me with her last word, and I only just held back a laugh. "Why don't you have anything?" I asked. That had been bugging me. Tethys seemed like she could hold her own, but she didn't even carry as much as a stick or brick.

"I trust Delfin," she said, her voice growing quiet. She looked over at him as he slept, his breathing soft and slow. "He's better at that kinda thing anyway."

"Whadya mean?"

Tethys bit her lip and sighed. The light behind her green eyes clicked off, and suddenly exhaustion washed over my ally's face. "You probably think we're just dragging you around for fun," she said, looking off into the darkness.

"No. I mean, no."

"I thought I'd be ready for this kinda thing," Tethys said, keeping her eyes on Delfin. "You know. The arena. Competing. I've known for a while I was gonna volunteer this year. Even when we ran from the Cornucopia, I figured I still had it in hand. Then when Delfin killed that girl from 6 on the second, third day, whatever day, just gored her when she was sleeping, it did something. I just kinda lost it."

She shook her head, and from the way she clenched her jaw, Tethys looked like she was holding back a tear. "He just killed her, and he never even flinched. I looked her in the eye as she woke up to the spear in her belly, and she looked back at me. I'm never gonna forget that. I still feel horrible, and I didn't even stab her. I just watched. That was bad enough. Maybe I just wanted to do something good, or maybe you just seem like a good kid, but I can't just push that off to the side."

"It's funny," she said, resting her chin on her hands. "Deflin was always a really nice guy growing up, and then he came in here and just let loose."

I watched her without a word. Tethys wanted to get something off her chest, before she died or Delfin died or I died, or we all did. I guess we all felt this way here underneath the endless night.

"Were you guys friends before?" I said after a long pause.

She nodded. "My dad's a dock manager, and his mom works as a machine operator, repairing the boats back home. They talked from time to time, and I met Delfin when I was six or so. He was a fat little kid."

"Really?"

"Yeah. His dad has a good job as a first mate on a boat, so his family always has a lot of food. We were in the same classes when we were little at school, and I remember a lot of the other kids poking fun at him because he was a bit pudgy. Maybe that made him want to do this, I dunno. But he was a good guy. He shared his lunch with me a few times and always made friends with the girls more than the other boys. One time, maybe even two years ago, we were just sitting out on one of the cliffs overlooking the bay back home. Sun setting, middle of the summer, cool sea breeze, kinda romantic. I thought he liked me back then, and I thought for a minute he was gonna kiss me right then. He didn't. Couldn't, I guess. I just…I just wonder."

She looked away again. "We were both happy to volunteer, but I'm never gonna know what woulda happened to either of us if we hadn't."

I fiddled with one of the straps on Delfin's backpack. Could that have ever happened in District 5? I wasn't the girl to make friends that Tethys sounded like, but listening to her reminisce as her eyes watered opened up a yawning void in a piece of my heart. I'd missed a lot, and I wouldn't get the chance to do so many things.

"I probably sound like an idiot," Tethys said, rolling her eyes.

"No! No, I just don't really know about any of that kind of stuff," I said. "Home's kinda boring for me."

"Yeah? What'd you do for fun?"

I frowned. "Not really anything fun. We do electricity and all that back home, so I worked on fixing solar panels."

"You?" Tethys leaned back and laughed like that was the funniest thing she'd heard in months. "You're like fourteen!"

"Fifteen. But yeah."

"And they trust you with that?"

"Yeah. That was fun. Ish. I always wanted to work on the big river dam we have as an engineer or something, but…guess not."

"That's fun? Way different kinda fun than I know."

"I dunno. We don't have boats or anything."

"C'mon. _Fun_. What do you do when you just want to screw around with friends and whatnot?"

I bit my lip and shook my head. "I don't really have a lot of friends."

Something close to regret flashed across Tethys's face, and she looked down at her feet. "Oh. Sorry. I feel kinda stupid."

"No, don't. It was just, my family never really encouraged that sorta thing."

"What's that mean?"

I stopped. Suddenly I felt like I'd said too much, like I'd let Tethys a step further into my feelings than I'd wanted to. As much as my brain told me to back off and play it off, however, something deep within me told me to push on. _She spilled her secrets. Who will you ever tell your feelings to again?_

Screw it. I didn't care if the Capitol was watching.

"I have a twin brother," I began. "Flint. He's a good guy. We look after each other, but I just feel like…he's closer with my parents. My dad owns a bar, and he works there with him and my mother. They always criticized him when he'd get bad grades at school or something, but when I would, they wouldn't care. When Flint and I would argue, he'd say they liked me more, but I just don't think they ever really cared much about what I was doing."

A voice in the back of my head warned, _Stop, stop. You're getting carried away._ I ignored it. "When I was twelve, my dad had me sign up to start working on the power fields. A lot of kids do that so it wasn't that crazy, but we didn't need the money like some of them do. Between four hours a day doing that, though, seven hours at school, and walking to and from places, I barely spent any time at home that wasn't sleeping for six days a week. I didn't have a lot of time for other stuff. Definitely not friends. I don't even know if I knew my parents, really. My mom didn't see me off for this. My dad did, but he only told me not to make him look bad."

I forced a little laugh. "I was never hungry or needing for anything, but I never really had anyone else there. Maybe my parents didn't want a daughter. I dunno."

It was only then that I noticed wet streaks running down my cheeks. Feeling stupid, I turned away from Tethys and rubbed at my face. So much for looking tough.

"I'm sure they're proud of you," said Tethys. Her voice sounded anything but convincing.

"Yeah," I said with a nod. "Guess so. If that's worth anything."

Tethys looked away. "Why don't you get some sleep, Terra? Don't worry about taking watch. I'll make Delfin stay up. Just get some sleep."

That was my cue to stop. When I lay down away from her, however, I felt terrible. I didn't want to sleep. Energy surged through my veins from my admission, but guilt also hit me. If, by some bizarre chance, I did win this, what would be waiting for me back home? The guilt of knowing Tethys died so I could, of killing the boy from 7 and Glenn, of watching Ember die in front of my eyes? All for what, so I could go back to a place that didn't feel like home?

As my eyes fluttered shut, I didn't know whether or not I eve deserved to win. When I woke up, that was the last thing on my mind.

"Terra. Terra, get up. Get up!"

Tethys shook me awake. I yawned and stretched – and I froze as I saw terror in her eyes.

"What?"

"Grab that knife you got and let's go. Now!"

Nearby, Delfin clutched his spear and breathed hard. Up on the ridge behind us and surrounded by a dark cloud of smoke, something horrible, something unnatural, something that may have once been human but no longer was, reared up and bellowed. Three dangerous-looking mutts, looking like someone had taken a praying mantis and a dog and smashed them together, lurked around the center figure – and I was sure they wanted nothing more than to sound off another cannon.


	21. The Darkness

_**+ Big thanks again to ArtemisCarolineSnow and Dancing-Souls, who have been so awesome in reviews through this story! Time for a less expository, more bang-bang chapter. **_

**/ / / / /**

Heat flashed across my face.

The Gamesmakers had pulled out all the stops with the…_thing_…that stood atop the hill. To say it was a thing at all, a living, breathing, feeling thing, may have been too far. It had two arms, two legs, and a head like any man, but the rest defied humanity. Brown armor plate sprouted here and there from volcanic fissures in the mutt's obsidian skin. It burst out in bony protrusions that looked more like rock formations than natural growth, jabbing out at odd angles from arms, legs, and torso. Even the mutt's head was otherworldly, its mouth yawning wide with a black void that spared no room for a nose. Only two tiny white dots, huddled between that terrible gape and the crown of bony thorns atop its head, told me that the creature could see at all.

From where had the Gamesmakers birthed this thing? I'd seen ghastly, ghoulish mutts in past Games that defied explanation, but this was the icing on the hellish cake of this arena. Every bit of it turned my veins into ice, from the slate gray, ossified war hammer it wielded like a toy to the dark cloud that bubbled up all around it to the braying, spitting, hissing insect-hounds that circled the creature's feet, their six spindly legs clicking and clacking on the loose rubble of the ruins.

My fingers tightened around my new dagger. It was a whisper against the sandstorm that bore down on us.

"That's a bit of a twist," Delfin said with a grimace. "Back into the ruins. Now."

"We can't outrun that!" Tethys stammered. Her eyes were wide enough that I was afraid they'd fall out of their sockets.

Delfin's face was the color of ash. Up on the hill, the beast aimed its hammer at him and roared. It wasn't some ordinary mutt. It was a hunter, something with brains and desire, ordering its dogs down the hill to rip us limb from limb. That was what had killed Ember, I was sure of it. It was cunning enough to leave me as bait for my allies in the pit, and I had no doubt it could end us all right here.

"I don't think we have a lot of choice," said Delfin. All the bravado left his voice, leaving a scared kid in its place. For the first time, Delfin looked like a tribute.

I froze. My legs turned to stone as the hounds stormed down the hill. Only Tethys's yanking on my hand stirred me into action, as thunder boomed with the lust of onlookers eager for blood.

"Terra!" my ally screamed.

_Run._ I ran. I ran as the first hound reached the pack we'd left behind. It sunk its steak knife jaws into the tough fabric, shredding it into ribbons and spilling cans of beans and torn socks across the black sand. My head shrieked with the pain from the blow that had landed me in the pit, but I forced myself to run. _Run_.

Cracked roads, crumbling towers, and long-empty windows rushed past as we ran. They watched us with hatred and a longing for the creatures skittering and shrieking on the broken cobblestone behind us to close the distance. It wasn't just a feeling: The thought flashed across my mind for a brief second as I sprinted down the street that each stone could hide a camera, behind which sat a Gamesmaker wishing for that very thing from the safety and climate-controlled comfort of the Capitol.

No darkness there. No beasts. No sand. No ruins. Just three tributes who needed to die.

Delfin sprinted left down a narrowing alley ahead of us, sandwiched between a pair of multistory longhouses and topped by a decorative ceiling of crumbling arches. Faults split the ground apart, and I ran with a careful eye on the road. A wrong step would sprain an ankle. The hounds would like that.

"Delfin!" Tethys panted as we rounded another corner. "We can't just keep running! Where do we go?"

He didn't know. I didn't know. The hounds were stumbling and fumbling just as much as we were, but they were relentless. Hidden in the alleyway between two towering ruins ahead of us, a narrow stone doorway beckoned of a hideaway. When I looked closer, however, I saw something else. A faint green glow in the darkness whispered of nightmares below.

"That way," said Delfin, pointing to the doorway. "We don't have another option. We stay up here, they're gonna run us down."

My heart raced. "I don't think that's a good idea," I said, glancing over my shoulder. The hounds wouldn't be long. "Can we climb a building?"

"You think that's gonna stop them?" Delfin snarled at me. "We got stuck up a building and it's game over! Nowhere to go!"

Tethys intervened. "Terra, we don't have time!" she said with panic and desperation. "C'mon!"

A booming shriek from somewhere behind us made the hairs on my arm stand up. I bit my lip, squeezed my eyes tightly, and hurried after my allies. The twilight above faded into inky darkness below. _This is a terrible idea._

"You have that flashlight?" Delfin said. "Tethys?"

"I – I left it. All the stuff. I'm sorry!" she said. Her voice warbled, and I had a feeling she would fall apart at any minute. The strain of watching her friend and district partner turn into a cold-hearted killer combined with the fear of an otherworldly abomination on our heels was tearing at her last vestiges of self-control.

"Let's just go slow," I said. The green luminescence grew stronger with every footstep, and my mind reeled with the memory of the things that bred down here – real or imagined.

The other two weren't helping. The glow intensified as we hurried deeper down a loose dirt hill, lighting up the dripping catacombs around us with a deathly hue. Tethys squeaked as Delfin sighed with a mixture of annoyance and panic. "This is a shit move," he said.

"You made us come down here!" Tethys shouted back.

"No, you were pushing me!"

"You don't have to shout!"

My hand trembled at Tethys's protest. She wasn't yelling at Delfin, but somewhere off to the side of him, as if another person was standing there. Delfin, too, leaned his head over his shoulder to look beyond Tethys as we jogged down the hill, his frustrations more heated and less coherent with each word.

"Would you just shut up and hurry up?" Delfin snarled.

"You're saying these things, and I just don't – "

Before Tethys had a chance to finish, the ground gave out under our feet. I flailed at the air and tumbled down into a pool of water below. The pool was cold and waist-high when I stood up, and patches of green lights here and there cast flickering shadows along oozing stone walls. Dread sunk over me. _Not again. Not again._

Tethys cried somewhere to my right. "You don't have to hit me!" she wailed. "Delfin!"

He was off to my left, shrouded in the dark and out of sight. I heard the _clack_ of his spearhead slamming against a wall. "Listen to me, Tethys!" he shouted to some demon from his head. "Tethys! I'm trying to keep you alive!"

_They haven't been here before_, I thought. _Hallucinations. That's what I saw right before Ember died. That's what they're seeing now. _If we lingered down here too long, Tethys and Delfin would end up killing each other – or me – out of some imaginary fright.

I didn't know what to do. _How do I fight things that aren't real? How do I know I'm not seeing things, too?_

I swallowed hard and called out, "Tethys? Delfin? Listen to me. Listen. We have to keeping going. We can't stay here."

"Get away from there!" Delfin replied to the rumbling air. "That's gonna hurt you. Get away from it!"

"Delfin," I pleaded, my fist still clenched around my knife. "Delfin, they're messing with your head. I'm real! We need to go! Delfin!"

Something growled behind me. Goosebumps crawled along the back of my neck, and when I turned, green light glistened off of shining fangs.

_Oh, Gods_.

The hound lurched at me. It tried to jump, but it was as bad as swimming as I was. I fell to the side and the mutt floundered past me, struggling to get a footing in the water and snapping at the air as it blew by. I stumbled and swallowed a mouthful of water. The pool tasted of blood and mud.

The mutt rounded on me as it got to its feet. Far off in the shadows, something else howled – something much larger, something that called the water home. Fear washed over me. I remembered that one, too.

"Wha-wait a minute," I heard Delfin say. Whether it was the arrival of the hound that spat at me as it circled or the wailing cry in the dark, something was bringing him to his senses. "Tethys? Where are you?"

_Where is she? What about me?_ I thought as the mutt charged.

The hound was on target this time. I hesitated for a moment, and the opening gave the mutt just enough time to take me head-on. _Oof! _The beast headbutted me with a ton of bone and steel, driving me into the muck with a hammer blow. I fought to keep my head above the water as the mutt snapped at me, and I only just grabbed the monster's front leg as it aimed a skewer at my chest.

"Delfin!" I shouted, swinging my knife at the air and catching nothing. "Help!"

_Smack!_ A wild swing of my knife caught the hound right in the bony carapace of its long, spindly chin. Tarry goo exploded all over me. The mutt screeched and jumped back, yelping like a wounded puppy and clawing at its gushing neck.

"Terra?" Delfin called out.

My ally emerged out of the darkness like a shadow, back reality and wielding his spear. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy in the misty darkness, but relief washed over me as he plunged his weapon into the mutt's head. The beast writhed and screamed, flailing at him with every bony point it could muster as it died.

"What the hell is going on down here?" Delfin panted. His shoulders tensed up. "This is some messed-up – "

"We have to go!" I cut in.

"No! Where's Tethys?"

"I don't know! I lost her! We have to go before the squid shows up and – "

"The what? Wait – move!"

He dragged me out of the way as another hound hurried out of the darkness. It bounded out of the water and lunged, but the mutt didn't make it more than three feet before a horrible arm reached out of the shadows. An oily, muscle-lined tentacle snared the beast by its torso and dug a thousand needles into its carapace. The hound screamed for a brief, frantic moment before it was dragged into the darkness.

Somewhere unseen, beast tore at beast.

"Ah!" Delfin yelped. He fell back into the water and scrambled away from where the water monster had dragged the hound to its doom. "Oh, this was a mistake. Oh boy. Tethys!"

Then I heard it. Somewhere in between the screaming of the dying hound and the groans of the squid, a girl cried. Looking around for the third hound, I stumbled through the water with my knife out in front of me. There: Standing amid a cloud of green dust with her forehead pressed against her wrist was Tethys. She was still locked in a battle of her mind's demons, shaking her head and sobbing wildly.

"I didn't," she said to the empty air. "I didn't. Really."

Delfin saw her too. "Tethys!" he shouted. "Hey, hey!"

We weren't the only ones who saw her. Teeth and bony legs lurched out of the darkness, and before I could say a word, the third mutt leapt forward and clamped its jaws around Tethys's shoulder.

"No!" Delfin screamed.

The mutt tossed her aside like a rag doll upon seeing Delfin dashing through the water at it, but it wasn't quick enough to fend off his spear. He impaled the beast square in the mouth. It didn't flail, but stopped moving as soon as the point dug into its carapace. Black ooze sprayed all over the three of us.

"Oh no," I breathed.

Tethys lay against a stone wall, her head just above the water line, her eyes bulging and her breaths shallow. I rushed up and pulled her as far out of the water as I could, but she shrieked in pain when I grazed her side. I could feel the damage. The beast had dug its teeth in deep.

"Get out of the way!" Delfin said, pushing me aside and grabbing Tethys. "God, no. Girl, don't you die on me."

She whimpered. Delfin forced his spear into my hands and picked Tethys up in his arms, cradling her close to his chest and glancing at me with a look like a crazed animal. "Lead us out of here."

"I don't know the way out!" I stammered. The spear felt alien in my hands, so full of danger and death. Two mutts had just died to its point.

"Find a way," Delfin growled. "I'm not letting her die down in this hellhole. Get us out."


	22. Monsters

_**+ Accelerating towards one game's end and one game's beginning. Also a major character introduction in this chapter.**_

**/ / / / /**

The night was a little darker than I remembered.

Tethys curled into a ball and wheezed. Scabby blood, both the hound's and her own, covered her shirt and hair like a second skin. She'd barely moved since we'd found this old, hollowed-out longhouse of stone and shadows after what seemed like an eternity of stumbling through the watery grave below. I'd found an exit after hours. I'd gotten us out, but I hadn't gotten us to safety.

Certainly not Tethys, at least.

A milky white growth boiled up beneath the skin of her right arm from shoulder to wrist. The mutt hadn't just delivered a savage bite to her chest, it had left behind something in that wound as well. Every time I looked closer the corruption seemed to grow, as if it were some fungus or virus chewing its way through Tethys's arm. I didn't have an answer to this thing.

"Is she asleep?" asked Delfin. He knelt against the closest wall in this long, empty ruin, his fists clenched, his jaw tremoring now and then. Delfin's courage faded by the minute. When lightning flashes shined in through cracks and jagged holes in the walls, they lit up the face of a nervous kid from District 4 who no longer looked as if he cared about leadership or glory or killing. Tethys had wanted to keep him from becoming a monster, to turn back into the friend she'd remembered from her past. It had taken nightmares to make that hope come true.

On the plus side, he wasn't acting so angry to me anymore.

I shook my head and looked away from Tethys. I couldn't stare at her arm for another second, lest maggots start digging tunnels under _my_ skin, too. "I guess so. Dunno if it's really sleep."

Delfin swore. "What the hell."

He wiped at his cheek and turned away from me. I didn't know what to say. I'd only known these two for a couple days, and I was being thrown yet again into someone's death. I had no doubt Tethys wasn't going to make it. Only one of us would get out, and there were still other tributes out there.

"I wish they told us who was left," I said. "Like who died in the sky, or something. I hate this not knowing."

"That last cannon made seven, if we were counting right," he grunted. "If we missed anyone while underground, than that's off. Bet those bastards from 1 are still hanging around. They tried to get us to team up, those two. Them and the girl from 2 who died way back at the beginning. Bunch of schmucks. I hated the boy. Wanted to punch him, but we weren't supposed to be fighting during training, yeah?"

"What'd he do?"

"He was being a jerk. Saying we wouldn't survive on our own. Needed them. Needed to team up like 4 always does with 2 and 1. I told him to piss off. Now if both those kids from 1 are still kicking, we're in a heap of trouble unless you're hiding some sort of skill with that knife that parachuted in."

"I watched them. Back during training."

"Woo-hoo."

"The boy likes to show off. He was tossing around a sword like a toy. I think he knew how to use it, but it looked like he'd rather just be flashy. I dunno. Maybe he'll screw up if he shows up."

Delfin scoffed. "Pretty much a walking cliché of that district, then."

"Why does your district always team up with them, then?"

He looked up at me with a look somewhere between pity and disdain. "You won't get it. You're not from our district."

"Then help me get it."

"Alright, fine," he said, leaning back on his hands gazing out a crack in the wall as lightning flared. "You're from 5. What's this all to you? The Games. The arena."

I paused. "It's the Games. Twenty-four go in and one comes out."

"Yeah, well, it's not twenty-four to us. Two of us go in, and most of the time, nobody comes out. That's all that matters. Look, District 4? We were the last holdouts in the Dark Days. We care about each other, but the rest of you guys gave up then. We have each other back home, but the rest of Panem doesn't mean much. What does it do for us? Way I see it and way a lot of others do, it's District 4 versus the world. Now you and the other districts are trying to kill our people in the arena. Hell, you might try to kill Tethys and me before this is over."

"Delfin, c'mon. I'm not gonna do that."

"Oh? I would. One comes out. You know you would in the same situation."

I didn't argue that. He was right. I couldn't have killed Ember: Even though he was from backwater District 12, he still understood me, and I understood him. If Glenn hadn't asked for it, I probably couldn't have killed him, either. He was a downer, sure, but there was too much pain and humanity under his sarcasm. He didn't deserve this. Delfin, though…he was a fighter. He'd already killed, same as me. I wasn't sure he deserved sacrifice.

"So why haven't you stabbed me, yet?" I whispered.

Delfin sighed. "I'm not just gonna gore you here."

"It sounds like that's what you did to the girl from 6."

"That was different."

I rolled my eyes. I knew I shouldn't be pushing something like this, especially when Delfin would have no trouble overpowering me, but I pressed on anyway. "How?"

"I didn't know her," he said, scrunching up his face and waving his hand exaggeratingly. "She was just a thing."

"Just a thing?"

"God, are you always so annoying like this? I care about Tethys. I care about me. I didn't care about her."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"Look, for whatever reason, Tethys wanted to keep you around. I'm not gonna tell her no."

He didn't say much, but that told me everything I needed to know. I was on borrowed time. If Tethys died, and I figured she wouldn't last too much longer, Delfin would turn on me in a heartbeat. My brain screamed at me to get out of here at the first chance I could find, but some other voice told me to stay. _The other tributes,_ it said. _You'll never kill them yourself. You couldn't handle a mutt. You barely handled the boy from 7. _

I needed Delfin. He was right about me: I needed him to fight the other survivors, and then I needed him to die. The chilling realization skinned another layer off of my frayed nerves and shriveling conscience. Maybe I did understand Delfin after all. The arena was turning us both into monsters.

I pushed aside the gloom slinking over my feelings and changed the subject. "Down in the tunnels," I said, lowering my voice again to little more than a whisper. "What'd you see?"

Delfin was quiet for a moment. Thunder was the only interruption to Tethys's shallow wheezes. "You first," he said at last.

I hesitated. Going back to the first time I'd combed through the sewers seemed like a lifetime ago, when it'd probably only been a few days. Back then Ember was alive, Tethys and Delfin were just other tributes, and I…I'd still been a killer.

"There were things that didn't make a lot of sense," I said. "A little girl who wore clothes like I used to. There was a man who looked something like how I remember my father did when I was little, back when I remember him turning out the lights in our house, a little drunk and mad, yelling at my mom and me. A girl my age stabbing a boy when he couldn't fight back. I don't really know what any of it meant. My mind twisting some memories, or something? I don't know."

"She told me I might as well kill her," Delfin said. He looked down, fidgeting, pushing a pebble around cracks in the floor with his foot. "Tethys. I saw her. Maybe it's like you said, whatever goes on down underground fucks with our memories and our minds. She told me to kill her, because she was dead to me. She me to die, too, because I was dead to her."

He did something I didn't expect then: He laughed. "I guess it doesn't bug me because it's just the arena playing tricks on my mind, huh? But it's right though. We can't both get out of here. We stick together in District 4, and I stick with Tethys, but it's always one that comes out of the arena. Just one. Only one. One of us, at least, has to die, and I'm a little scared that I want it to be her."

_You and I are alike_, I thought. _We really are the monsters in this horrible place_.

**/ / / / /**

"I reached into the grave, and the grave gave something back."

He'd said that so long ago, this man. What had it been, twenty years? More? Arrian de Lange couldn't remember, but he'd remembered those words. He still didn't know what they meant, but it didn't matter. He trusted the man who'd said them, the man with so many names, so many faces, so many words and decisions that escaped his understanding.

"Many people know me by many names," he'd said back then on the dirty, rat-infested streets of Auburn's Belly. The Capitol hushed up that horrible place, that city slum that didn't exist to those wealthy whores in their gaudy clothes and shining jewelry. They ignored the Belly at best, preyed upon its poverty-stricken inhabitants for easy avox labor or idle entertainment at worst. As a child, Arrian knew he'd live a short, unremarkable life – if not a painful one.

But this man hadn't ignored it. He hadn't ignored Arrian, either. "You have fight. Spirit," the man had told him that stormy, raining day in the Belly as the sewer system failed and regurgitated its noxious slop into the side streets. "I will give you something to fight for, and I will tell you the real name I do not tell them. I am Suleiman."

Rain. It rained then. It rained now, here, as the seas of District 4 raged and surged beneath stormy skies.

The rain and wind would have drowned out the drone of the hovercraft's engines anyway, but Arrian had activated the sleek, bullet-shaped aircraft's stealth drive an hour ago. None of the fishermen down on the rocking gray seas below would see their craft, let alone hear it. Even the Capitol's defense drones, arranged in their patrols to ensure that no enterprising District 4 captain ever thinking of a mad sail for freedom would succeed, wouldn't have a clue they were there.

The storm's sudden arrival with its towering clouds and sheets of rain meant that the fishing boats were packing up to head back to District 4's harbor early, however. Arrian would have to hurry.

"A cautious man might hold up at the fishing perimeter," Arrian said, running his hand along a console full of glowing orange lights in the hovercraft's cockpit. On the cockpit screen in front of him, a series of holographic numbers jumped to life: Elevation, wind speed, the effects of the storm on navigation, and more. "But this man...I do not mind the security drones."

A hulking, pale-skinned man lurched through the narrow cockpit door and leaned against the gunmetal gray wall behind Arrian. He was powerful but not inhumanly so, his hair dark but not unnatural, his wide eyes green but not piercing. Suleiman tread the line behind man and beast, always sure to keep one foot in the former category. His face with its high cheekbones and square jaw was full of strength and determination, but more so, the man's offset eyes and teeth that were just so slightly crooked showed that he was as human as anyone else.

An intimidating human, but human nonetheless. He called the Capitol home, but Arrian had a feeling it wasn't the same Capitol that cheered on tributes in the Hunger Games.

"There," he said, pointing to an indicator light on Arrian's console. "Two trawlers heading back. Close on them."

Suleiman scowled as the hovercraft shuddered. The thunder roared outside, and the sea's swells rose as tall as the ships. Each wave swallowed the blinking buoys that marked the outermost perimeter of District 4's fishing zone. As long the boats kept inside the Inclusion Zone marked by the buoys, a giant swath of ocean stretching from District 4's bay to far offshore and teeming with fish and all sorts of bounty from the sea, they were fine. One foot outside of those markers, however, and the cloaked Capitol surveillance drones lightning up Arrian's radar would blast them into flotsam if they didn't turn around in five minutes.

"_Chestnut Rose_," Suleiman read off the name of the closest boat on the cockpit's readout. "One of Rio West's associates captains that."

"It's inside of the buoys by a half-mile," said Arrian, his attention focused on keeping the hovercraft level.

Suleiman waved off the concern. "Better that way. It's in the line of sight of the other ship. There will be witnesses, and we want that. Target the nearest drone. Hit it with an EMP, knock out its camouflage, and make a show of it so that the boats will see. I'll take care of the trawler."

"Anything specific?"

"Lower us to thirty feet. And open the back hatch."

It was child's play for Arrian. He nosed the hovercraft down to just above the sea's swells. On the heads-up display in front of him, one of the Capitol's drones popped up amid a series of red and green numbers. The delta-shaped aircraft was barely larger than a car, but it was bristling with enough weaponry to sink a half-dozen fishing boats. Not that it needed them: No one in District 4 had been stupid enough to sail out of the Inclusion Zone on purpose in forty years. Everyone in the district knew that.

Suleiman and Arrian were counting on that.

The bad weather was complicating things. Not to be deterred by nature's wrath, Arrian lined up the Capitol drone in his sights, grabbed a joystick with his right hand, and fingered its trigger. Something hummed for a brief second, and on cue, brilliant blue lightning split across the sky in the distance. This didn't come from a storm cloud. A dark shape formed out there just outside of the buoys, its machine mind too stupid to figure out what had just happened.

Back in the hovercraft's cargo bay, Suleiman kicked something out the hatch doors and into the ocean below.

_Splash!_

"Pull us up!" Suleiman shouted from the rear, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the storm with a baritone roar. "We're done."

Arrian, however, wanted to watch. He nosed the hovercraft higher but kept an eye on the sea. Something dark and sleek cut through the ocean below, leaving behind a narrow wake as it sped towards the nearest district trawler a mile away. The ship never had time to see the danger, let alone get out of its way.

With a bloom of orange-red flare, Suleiman's torpedo split the fishing boat in two. The ship's fuel exploded in a cloud of fire and death, raining burning oil and metal debris across the raging ocean. The broken prow of the boat listed to one side, splashing down into the merciless water like a tired old whale on its last voyage. The stern wasn't so graceful, its superstructure aflame, shooting fire and shrapnel here and there as it surrendered to the waves.

In these seas, no one would survive that. A half mile further away, however, the other trawler wouldn't have missed a thing. The exposed Capitol drone hovered off in the distance like a guilty suspect caught at the scene of the crime.

It had been one of Arrian's easier jobs.

"Word of mouth will take care of the rest," Suleiman exhaled as he leaned back into the cockpit. "We're done here."


	23. Closing the Gap

_**+ Thank you again to Dancing-Souls and Radio Free Death for the wonderful reviews, and to the big surge of readers over these last two chapters! Means a lot to know people are following the story. Let me know what you think and/or where I can improve!  
><strong>_

**/ / / / /**

The night brought new horrors.

I was convinced that I wasn't seeing things. The corruption under Tethys's skin swelled and spread with each passing hour, the disease infecting more and more of her arm. My ally whimpered and cried as she drifted in and out of consciousness, resisting every attempt from Delfin and me to get her to choke down water. All we could do now was wait – wait for her to get better, or wait for whatever disease ravaged her to take an even worse tol.

Not like we had much food as it was. Tethys had lost her pack underground and with it all of the food and most of the other supplies. Delfin carried water, spare socks, a rope, and a few other tools, but the depressing notion of choking down a huge brown centipede I'd skewered on my dagger reinforced our predicament.

"How do I even know I can eat this?" I moaned as the bug writhed on my weapon. "I'm gonna get unlucky eventually eating all these bugs."

Delfin sighed. "I cut the head off. You're not gonna get anything else."

"How do I know it's not poisonous?"

"Because Tethys dared me to eat one that looked exactly the same earlier. You wanna starve, go 'head. Not my problem."

I screwed my eyes shut and crammed the armored creature in my mouth. With a crunch and the subsequent explosion of goop, I immediately regretted that choice. The taste was…exotic. I guessed it was halfway between the delight of eating two week-old moldy bread crust and guzzling raw sewage, an estimation I wasn't inclined to judge any further.

Delfin hissed at me as I gulped down the meal. "Shut up!"

"Whu, I – "

"Quiet! Now!"

He picked up his spear, frowned, and slunk out of the building. Thunder rumbled off in the distance, and with only Tethys's labored breathing for company, I felt very alone in the cavernous ruin. While we were off the street and out of the open, we were sitting ducks if someone knew we were here. Between Tethys's condition and my poor excuse for fighting, Delfin was our only protection – and I saw in his eyes more and more that he was second-guessing his commitment to our alliance.

The thunder stopped, and the moment of silence drove me mad.

I gripped my arms, stood up, and took a cautious step towards the nearest gap in the rubble. "Delfin?" I whispered.

I jumped as he stormed back into the building with a scowl. "Something's prowling around out there," he said, tossing his spear to the ground.

"Something?" I asked, swallowing and backing into a dark corner.

"Something was beeping, like a parachute or whatever. I looked around the street and something else scuffed behind a door. Dunno what it was, but something's watching."

"You think it's one of the others?"

"Or a mutt. Or that…thing. For all I know, we're the last three left and everyone's just waiting for something to happen to Tethys. They don't give us a fucking clue in here." He hurled a rock at the wall and spat. "Not a damn clue."

Tethys cried again and shuddered. Whatever the mutt was that had bitten her, it'd been carrying something with it – something that was happily digging through Tethys's arm and dragging out the inevitable. I couldn't imagine what she was feeling. It was a blessing that she was only half-conscious: I knew I wouldn't want to watch some parasite or worm spawning inside me.

It was even worse to know we were helpless against it. Digging it out would probably kill Tethys through blood loss or infection, and if something was watching us outside, her screams would certainly give away a perfect time to attack us.

"I don't think we're gonna know anything unless we get out of here," I said. "And two of us aren't. At least."

Delfin leaned forward and lay his face in his hands. His chest heaved. "Really didn't want it to end like this," he said, his voice garbling. "Just sitting here with nothing to do, letting this place kill us…it's not what you think, y'know?"

I shook my head, and he laughed with a bitter croak. "I guess you guys are used to it where you're from. Tethys and I grew up seeing, what, four, five victors from home since we were born? Something like that. The stupid thing is that those guys who win aren't even treated that well. I bet you think we revere them or something give that we're the favorites every year with 1 and 2, but no. I've seen Finnick and Annie Odair down by the docks, and a lot of times they get…uh, looks from people. Like they're sell-outs. There's only a few victors who are well-liked, and they're the ones who don't go to the Capitol much."

"So why do guys have such good tributes every year?" I asked.

"Why d'you think? Why you guys in the other districts haven't gotten it yet is beyond me. Look. All the fishermen and the boat mechanics and cannery workers have their own comraderies and circles, but that's all still hard work. You might drown. Something in the ocean might eat you. You might be stuck in poverty forever in a cannery, for you and your kids and your grandkids. That sucks. So…"

"So you try to get rich? Through the Games? That's a terrible chance. Almost everyone dies every single year."

"Yeah, but you give your tributes an advantage and those chances go up," Delfin said with a shrug. "We have winners. Lots of 'em, and they do get rich, even if most are looked at all weird. Most parents can't even imagine their kids having easy lives where they don't have to worry about money. It's a crapshoot with ridiculously bad odds, but some of us are dumb enough to play the lottery. Still, you don't imagine watching your arm turn into something monstrous like that."

Delfin sighed and slumped against the wall. "Makes me wonder if it'll be worth if it I win. Lotta money, easy life, but I have to remember all this."

I looked away. Daud's scowl and Finch's tired eyes brushed past my thoughts. _Why even bother caring, Terra?_ I heard Glenn saying all the way back in the Training Center cafeteria. Out of all twenty-four of us who entered this howling darkness, I had a feeling Glenn was the only one who had seen this coming.

Funny. I'd ignored my district partner so much during that lead-up to the Games. Maybe I should've listened to what he had to say.

"I don't think it's worth volunteering," I said after a long pause.

Delfin snorted. "Too late now, I guess. I'm gonna get some sleep. Just keep an eye on Tethys for now."

My thoughts tossed and turned in my head like Tethys did on the ground over the next few hours. Glenn. Ember. The boy from 7. Now Tethys. Why did I still have a chance when they didn't? It wasn't skill. I'd half-assed my way through the arena since the opening cannon shot. It sure didn't feel like luck. So what? Were the Gamesmakers toying with me, stringing me out, fattening up my emotional reservoir before breaching the dam for the whole country to see? Or had Elan and the others actually convinced people to pull for me?

_Fat chance_, I told myself. _You'd have gotten way more sponsorships_. My mind wavered on that, however: The dagger must have cost a fortune, especially this late in the Games, and I never was going to draw the kind of money that someone like Delfin or the kids from 1 would earn.

It all made my head hurt. I just wanted a chance to rest and feel safe for once, but until I clawed my way out of this hell, I'd be stuck looking over my shoulder for a hint of danger. Or, in Tethys's case, for a front-row view of the grotesque.

Tethys. _Oh, bad. Bad bad bad._

She turned over, grimaced, and ripped at her chest. Before I had time to get to her, she tore a hole in her clothing, revealing pale, diseased lines shooting out like a road network all the way to the base of her neck. The skin around every fiber darkened and swelled.

_Hrkk._

"Delfin!" I screamed, scuttling back on all fours away from Tethys. "Get up!"

He started, reached for his spear, and saw Tethys. "Holy shit!" he yelled, recoiling back and hitting his head against the rubble.

Tethys shrieked in pain. She clawed at invisible monsters in front of her with her good arm, barely even recognizing that we were there. The scene paralyzed me with fright, and it didn't take more than a few seconds from things to go from bad to worse.

"Hey!" a girl's voice shouted outside. "Get over here! Someone's in this thing!"

"Oh _come on_," Delfin said, snapping back into the moment. He bolted to his feet with his spear out in front of him just as a dirt-caked face poked in through the street-side gap in the wall. Even amid the muck covering her skin, I recognized the long, blond hair and low cheekbones of the girl peeking in at us. I'd watched her shoot arrows and fight with a short sword like the weapon was an extension of her arm in training, and I knew that she, unlike the boy from 7, would have no problem putting up a hell of a fight. It was the girl from 1.

She burst into a smile when she saw Tethys writhing on the floor. "Get over here! 4's alone and – oh. Uh-oh."

Her grin faded as Delfin rushed her. He hurled a handful of pebbles at the girl as she dipped back outside, rounded and me, and shouted, "Stay here! Keep her safe!" Without another moment's pause, Delfin bolted outside into the street. "Get back here, you _whore!_"

I squeaked out an affirmative and reached for my dagger. It was a useless safety valve, really: I was panting like a dog and wedged into the corner, as if shrinking into a ball would keep me safe as the world exploded around me. Tethys whined and writhed on the ground as she birthed agony beneath her skin, Delfin was fighting the two from 1 single-handedly, and if anyone else stumbled up on me now…well, that would be it.

_Oh Gods. Hang on, Terra._

Thunder – no, a cannon, roared. My heart raced and leapt into my throat. _Oh no. Delfin._

"Mm."

A cough from my right spun me around. A huge shadow stood in the crack of the wall that led to the alley behind our building. I shrieked and pressed myself into the wall, fearing that it was the beast that had chased us earlier – but it wasn't. He wasn't a mutt, but he wasn't a friend, either. It was Acheron, from District 2.

A flash of lightning lit up the blood caking his face and hair. A long gash ran from the boy's forehead to his jawline, and something had taken off two of his left fingers. Still the boy was standing, and from the broadsword he buried into the ground at his feet – a weapon with a blade at least half as long as I was tall, if not more – I guessed he was doing just fine despite the injuries.

I whimpered and crowded into the corner, but he didn't attack. He nodded towards Tethys and frowned as if he were disappointed in me. "That's cruel of you," he said, his voice much softer than I'd remembered from the cafeteria. "Letting her linger. Don't move."

_As if!_ I tensed my muscles to run, but something about the tensed-up, stilted way he walked towards Tethys froze me against the wall. I didn't know if I could outrun this boy, but I had a pretty good guess that if he caught me, he'd make short work of my puny dagger.

He gave me a clear signal of that a moment later. With a grunt, Acheron heaved his sword over his shoulder, aimed it down like a spear at Tethys's chest, and thrust it down.

"Guk!"

Tethys's eyes bulged. She gurgled up a thick bubble and flinched. With one, two, _three_ jerks, Tethys sighed, let her head roll back, and went still.

I screamed. A cannon roared.

"No!" I shrieked. I pulled my knees up to my chest, hysterical. My heart threatened to tear through my chest, and I dropped my dagger in terror.

"Pick that up," Acheron said. He buried his murder weapon into the sand and rested his chin on its black pommel. "I won't kill you unarmed. Pick it up."

Rivers of tears rushed out of my eyes. It was all I could do to shake my head. "Pick it up," Acheron repeated. A hint of anger flashed in his eyes, like the first gust of wind before a sandstorm building on the horizon. "Pick it up!"

My lip trembled. "I can't," I whispered, my voice barely a sound at all. "I can't."

He snarled. "Pick it up!" Acheron hammered his sword into the wall and scowled at me. "Pick it up!"

"Tethys!"

Just then, Delfin burst back into through the street-side gap, sweat covering his brow, his spear's point dark and bloody. "_No!_"

Acheron growled. I waited with baited breath as the two boys eyed each other for a tense moment, their weapons at the ready and their faces full of animosity and battle rage. Acheron backed down first, slithering through the back wall crack as Delfin lunged at him, his spearhead cutting through empty air.

"Delfin!" I shouted, rushing forward.

He swatted me away with a backhand slap. I grimaced at the hit, and in a moment of clarity, grabbed my dagger. _Tethys is dead. He's not your friend_. But as I prepared to defend myself, I couldn't strike. Delfin bent over Tethys's limp body, bawling his eyes out like an orphaned child.

"Don't do this," he sobbed, cradling her despite the parasites digging their way out of her arm and the blood bubbling out of her chest. "Tethys, don't. Don't leave me here. Don't do this."

I couldn't leave him like this. Acheron was still out there, and I hadn't heard a third cannon. Whoever was running with the girl from 1 was still alive. I needed Delfin for now.

"Listen to me," I said, holding my hand over my chest to keep my heart from punching its way out. "We can't stay here. Delfin?"

In a blur, he lunged and grabbed me around the neck with both hands. I choked as he pressed me against the wall in a fit of rage. "This is your fault!" Delfin snarled. His face was an inch from mine, but the whole world was exploding in sparks. "I told you to watch her! You let her die!"

I clawed at his hands and did my best to shake my head. It felt as if my eyes would burst out of their sockets. "Delfin," I mouthed. "Please."

"_This is your fault!_"

I didn't have the energy to keep fighting. I gaped at him like a fish and let my hands dangle. _He's gonna kill me_, I thought. _He's gonna kill me right here_.

But Delfin didn't. He shook his head and pushed me away, turning his back on me as I coughed and gasped for breath. Anger surged in my gut. I wanted to grab my dagger and plunge it into his back, but aa pleading voice in my mind stopped me. _His best friend just died_, it said. _He cared about her. He didn't mean it. He's just angry. _

On cue, Delfin wiped his palm along his forehead and said, "This is just a mess."

I licked my lips, steadied my voice, and said, "Hey. The guy from 2's gonna be around again before long, okay? We have to go. You can't do anything else now."

"Oh I'm gonna do something," he growled. "I'm going to hunt that guy down, and I'm going to cut him down with a lot less sympathy than he gave Tethys. I'm gonna maul that little bastard. You can take your chances alone if you want. Tethys seemed to give a damn about you, so I'll let you run with me for now if you want, but you better make up your mind right now. I'm not sticking around."

I swallowed hard. This could only end with bloodshed: Either Acheron would kill Delfin, or my ally would take his revenge…and then, I had no doubt, he'd come after me. There weren't many of us left, and once Acheron was dead, I doubted Delfin would care about anyone else who stood in his way. He didn't have anyone else to fight for.

I didn't either. I was going to have to make a terrible choice. If I thought I was a monster before, I was headed straight to the Dark Hell with where this was leading.

"I'll come," I said. "Let's go."


	24. Stone and Sea

_**+ Thanks ArtemisCarolineSnow and Dancing-Souls on the reviews!**_

**/ / / / /**

_Boom_.

It wasn't thunder that roared in the night. Somewhere in this horrible arena, another tribute died. How many of us were left? Four, five? Less?

The thought troubled me as I trouped up a rubble-strewn street behind Delfin. Every minute or so I'd drift my fingers over the handle of the dagger I'd crammed in my belt. That weapon was my only safeguard against the boy marching ahead of me, his jaw now set like hardened concrete, his fist a vise tightened around his spear's shaft. Delfin's eyes simmered with jagged red capillaries of hatred. His face contorted with lust for revenge.

He stopped for just a second at the sound of the cannon. His shoulder flinched. For a moment, I thought Delfin would turn on me just then, the blast unhinging his anger. But he didn't turn, nor even look back. _Plod, plod, plod._ We walked on.

"Three?" he muttered under his breath. "Four? Nah. Three."

"What?" I said, stumbling to keep pace with him.

"Nothing. Hurry up."

"I am."

"Then keep hurrying."

There had to be at least one other kid still out there. Whether the survivor from 1 or Acheron still stood I didn't know, but until we found them, I wouldn't run from Delfin. I didn't know if any others were still alive, but if I heard another cannon, I wouldn't be able to take the chance. One more cannon and I'd have to run. _If you two are the last two standing,_ I thought, _he'll skewer you before you have time to scream._ I wouldn't stand a chance in an open fight. I'd have to run, find an advantage, and use it. Anything less and I'd be dead.

Delfin, it seemed, was thinking the same thing.

"Here's how it's going to work," he said as we tromped down another bleak, deserted avenue lined with the hollowed-out husks of row houses. "You're fine until I find that kid from 2. I'm gonna kill him, and after that, if you're still tagging around behind me…"

He let his voice trail off. He didn't have to finish his sentence: Our truce's timer was ticking down.

I slipped my dagger out of my belt as we trudged up a long, shallow-sloping hill lined with half-buried relics of obsidian and basalt. I could do it. I was straddling this arena's blurry line of morality, but with one leap of faith and a quick stab I could jump over it entirely with both feet. Was this what most victors thought when the end came closing in? Did every tribute become no more than an obstacle, their humanity swept away into the wind by circumstance and fate?

I didn't bother to fight the dread. I wasn't going to stop my descent into whatever inky depth this arena had in store.

Delfin stopped me when we crested the top of the hill. "Down!" he hissed, dropping to all fours and craning his neck over a long, flat rock.

I flattened out and peeked over the ridge. Down below, a cluster of one-story, burnt-out granite buildings circled a sandy courtyard. Chunks of stone jutted out from the dust, and a small but bright orange fire burned at the center of the square. The figure who laid out on his side beside the blaze looked small from up here, but from the size of the sword that rested against a pack nearby, I could tell we'd found Delfin's revenge.

Goosebumps crawled across my arms.

Delfin laughed quietly. "Bastard's not even trying to hide."

I swallowed hard and stayed silence. I didn't think Acheron was looking to stay away from us anymore. If anything the fire told me he wanted to end this game here and now. He wanted a resolution.

Was this it? Was this it for all of us? The Games? Twenty-four kids down to…were we just three now?

"End of the line," Delfin growled, inching forward and dragging his spear in the sand. "I'm going down there to end this, Terra." He looked back at me, and for a moment, I thought I saw a pang of regret sink in his eyes. "If we meet again, it's nothing personal. I just want to go home now."

"Me too," I whispered. "Good luck, I guess."

He sighed, stared at me for a moment longer, and stood up, shaking off a cloud of dust. "Yeah, I guess. Good luck to you, too."

That was all we had left to discuss. Delfin left his pack lying on the ground at the top of the hill, hoisting his spear and stumbling down the hill towards destiny.

I was alone. He was an enemy now, I told myself. I was surrounded by enemies, and I had no hope of finding a friendly face like I had with Ember and Tethys. This place had purged every friendly face, and all that was left were the beasts like me. For a brief moment I envied Glenn. He was dead, but he'd died on his own terms. He'd died with a face he knew staring down at him. _You're going to die at the alien hands of a stranger or a mutt, Terra_.

I sighed. I couldn't be focusing on this stuff right now. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes, and watched as Delfin closed in on his target. He picked up a rock and hurled it towards Acheron, landing it neatly in a puff of sand a few feet from the fire. The boy from 2 didn't flinch.

When Delfin spoke, I could just hear his words. "Waiting for somebody?" he asked, his voice faking confidence but still a little shaky.

"No," Acheron replied. Where Delfin looked ready for a fight, Acheron looked at peace. He leaned forward with his forearms on his knees as Delfin approached, not even glancing at his sword.

"Looks like it to me," Delfin said. "I was looking for you."

"I guess so."

Anger bloomed in Delfin's words. "You guess so? Did'ja guess so when you stabbed Tethys too? Y'know, she was my friend. I cared about her, and you killed her like she was some animal."

"How many animals have you killed?" said Acheron as he examined a fingernail.

"This isn't about me."

"It looks like it. I'm not hunting you down. You came for me. You want to kill. I just want to go home, and there's only one way to do it. I'm not enjoying it, though."

"Yeah? You think I'm just fighting for fun?"

"I think at least a part of you enjoys it, Delfin."

"You remembered my name?"

"I remembered everyone's names."

I gulped. Delfin was too far gone to hear the threat in Acheron's words as he twirled his spear and circled his quarry. "You're kinda right. I'm going to enjoy putting you down for what you did."

In one quick motion, Acheron swooped over to his sword and wielded the weapon. He was fast for a guy his size, and any hesitation evaporated into the dry, hot wind as he circled the fire across from Delfin. I held my breath waiting for the first move.

"I'm not dead yet," Acheron growled.

He swung. His broadsword sliced through the flames and whiffed through the air as Delfin jumped back. My old ally was a blur on the attack, dodging, juking, and spinning his spear as he launched himself at the boy from 2. Steel struck steel and cried out in anger. I saw now why Delfin was so confident: His footwork was impeccable, his speed and fighting grace almost a thing of beauty. He was all motion and wind, forcing Acheron back towards the edge of the courtyard.

Delfin's spear just missed Acheron's head as the latter ducked, and the boy from 4 pulled off his attack for a moment, sizing up his enemy and catching his breath. "You abandoned your partner, huh?" he panted. "You even know what it's like to fight through this shit with someone you care about? Huh?"

Acheron lowered his head and breathed hard as Delfin raged. "She deserved to go home. I deserve to go home. I don't even know what the hell you are."

"You just come up with that?" Acheron said, so deeply and quietly that I barely heard him.

"Nah, a while ago."

Delfin jabbed his spear again and raced back into the fight. _Bang!_ The boy from 2 swung his sword in an executioner's arc, just missing Delfin as he twirled to his left and smashing a rock instead. The miss cost him: Delfin cut low with his spear, slicing Acheron's chest with the tip of his blade and jumping away in the nick of time. The boy from 2 grunted, grimaced, and circled back towards the fire as Delfin launched another flurry of attacks. Little by little he was wearing his opponent down, and I could just make out a trickle of blood running down Acheron's torso.

Acheron winced as Delfin broke off for another pause. I squinted for a better view. The boy from 2 looked like a wounded animal, holding his sword close and backing towards a corner away from his attacker. "I'm not trying to kill you," he panted.

Delfin laughed. "You really shoulda thought of that a long time ago, man."

"You think Tethys would want to see you like this?"

"Don't matter. She's dead. Your fault."

Delfin lunged at Acheron again, but I gasped as I looked on. Acheron wasn't just backing into a corner to get away from the fight. He'd chosen his ground carefully: The boy had retreated into the most rubble-strewn part of the courtyard, and Delfin had missed that entirely. One misstep onto a crumbling piece of cobblestone would mean a twisted ankle.

But Delfin got the upper hand first. With a quick step in, he dodged Acheron's swinging sword and whipped his spearhead across the boy's right hand. Acheron yelped in pain and dropped his weapon. Sensing victory, his attacker stabbed his spear – and struck air.

Acheron launched himself to the ground to avoid the weapon and rolled to his right. With a flick of his hand, he hurled a fistful of sand into Delfin's face. It caught his attacker right as he was overextended. Delfin coughed, recoiled, rubbed at his eyes furiously, and banged his ankle into a tooth-shaped piece of granite sticking up out of the black sand.

"Oof!"

I held in a scream. Acheron punched Delfin square in the stomach, knocking the wind out of the boy. Delfin doubled over and stumbled backward, flashing his spear in front of him but now lacking all of the control that had made him so dangerous before. Acheron smelled blood. The boy from 2 grabbed the spear shaft with his good hand and smashed his fist into Delfin's forearm with a sickening _snap_.

My ally screamed. _He's not your ally anymore, Terra_.

With one quick motion, Acheron yanked the spear away from Delfin, spun it around, and impaled him.

I looked away. Someone gasped and I heard a _thump_. My stomach heaved. I pressed my forehead into my arms and squeezed my eyes shut, but I knew he was dead. Delfin had been a jerk, and I had to get through him to go home, as it was. I should have been relieved, but I only felt a gnawing emptiness cave away another hole in my gut. He'd talked to me. He'd been a recognizable face in this otherworldly hell. Now he was dead, and I'd just watched and let it happen.

And Acheron was still alive.

I didn't look up as Delfin's cannon boomed. I knew what time it was as I curled my fingers around my dagger's grip. I knew what came next.


	25. Descent

_**+ Thanks to Dancing-Souls and ArtemisCarolineSnow for the reviews! Addendum: I've done some limited re-editing, partially because I wanted to dip back below the T rating barrier. I've ironed out a lot of the more mature language and toned down one of the more gruesome imagery areas from earlier; additionally, I'm aiming to keep things less graphic in the future. This story's less about the individual arenas/Games and more about the broader schemes and characters (and this is gonna be a long story…) so I figure the change's probably for the best. Additionally, I added in a decent-sized section back in ch. 17. Now enough with the past and on to this chapter! Things are coming to a head.**_

**/ / / / /**

Cyrus heard the shouts before he opened his eyes.

He groaned and turned over in his bed, tossing the thin wool sheets off and rubbing his eyes. The curtains in his guest quarters here in District 4's City Center did little to keep out the early morning ocean sun. Orange fractals of sunlight flickered on the redwood walls, phasing in and out with the billowing of the curtains in the blustery, salty air. Something was absent, however. The past few days, Cyrus had always heard the last few trawlers heading out into the ocean, stragglers looking to catch up with the early-morning boats that had left the docks long before sunrise.

He couldn't heard them today.

Shouts again. Dim, faint, but somewhere off in the distance away from the town square, people are shouting.

"Guard!" Cyrus growled, forcing himself out of bed and changing in a hurry. Even his closed smelled like the sea after just a few days in this district.

No one answered his call. Cyrus slipped on a pair of shoes and pushed open the front door with a loud _creak_. Before he could take two steps outside into the warm summer air, however, a white-armored hand stopped him in his tracks.

"Best if you stay inside, Counselor Locke," a tall Peacekeeper said. "Situation's getting out of hand."

"Situation?"

The Peacekeeper paused. Cyrus furrowed his brow and tried to guess the man's expression beneath his blank black visor. Was he hiding something? Guessing at something? Trying to cover up his fellow soldiers? From the tense way he clutched his rifle, Cyrus figured the news would be bad.

"Yesterday there was an accident," said the Peacekeeper. "There's unrest breaking out, sir."

Cyrus's breath caught in his throat. "Unrest? From where?"

"Started an hour ago in the Gulch. It's spreading to the docks. Rioters."

_Oh, this isn't just bad news_. "Where's your commander?" Cyrus barked. "I need to see him."

"It's safer if you stay inside until the situation –"

"Creon Snow is in the Capitol," Cyrus snarled, pressing his face an inch away from the Peacekeeper's visor. "Until you hear otherwise, I am the ranking person in this district! If there's a riot breaking out, I don't have time to play around with you to try and get a handle on it! I am not sitting by and listening as you shoot into a crowd! Where is he?"

"Uh – barracks."

"Where is that?"

Another shout rang out, closer this time. "I'll show you, Counselor," the Peacekeeper said.

The streets seemed too empty to Cyrus as he followed the Peacekeeper away from the docks. "Where'd this start?" he asked, feeling for the concealed pistol along his waist that he'd left back in the guest house. _Of all the times to forget that…_

"Manheim's Gulch," the Peacekeeper answered. Cyrus nearly had to run to keep pace with the man. "Nothing more than rocks and bricks so far, but it took some time to get the response out."

"What? Why?"

"Best if you ask the commander, Counselor."

Gulls cried out overhead as Cyrus and the Peacekeeper hurried towards a squat, two-story concrete building surrounded with a barbed wire-topped iron fence. A dozen Peacekeepers stood guard at the gate. District 4's garrison was a utilitarian place, full of stark gray halls, sterile white lights, and chilly, still air that smelled nothing like the salty breeze outside. Computers with blue holographic interfaces filled the command center at the heart of the installation, with white-uniformed Capitol attendants milling about a dozen monitors all about the spacious room.

"Commander Nera," the Peacekeeper leading Cyrus called out to a tall woman with steel-blonde hair in the middle of the command center, standing over a row of computer consoles and in deep discussion with two aides. "Commander. The Counselor wants a word about –"

"The hell is this?" Cyrus shouted before the Peacekeeper could finish. _Too many people standing around for a crisis_. "Commander? That you?"

The woman brushed off her aides and sized Cyrus up. She was towering, even among the men, and she looked far beyond intimidating when she narrowed her eyebrows and folded her hands behind her back. "I don't have time to talk, Counselor," she said.

"I don't want to chat. I want the situation," Cyrus said, balling up a fist gritting his teeth. "And I want the assurance that you're handling this right."

"I've already sent in two squads of my troops," the commander replied with an icy tone, any friendliness gone from her voice. "And District 4 is my responsibility."

"'Fraid it's my responsibility since I told the President that I would keep a lid on any escalation!" Cyrus said. "This is only making it worse! What happened that started this?"

"According to what we know? A boat had a fuel malfunction yesterday and exploded."

"And that's what those rioters know?"

"Hearsay says they're blaming it on one of our drones. They say an eyewitness saw it shoot at and sink the boat while it was inside the fishing perimeter."

Cyrus cut her off with a wave of his hand. "What kind of damage are we looking at with this?"

"They've torched a few buildings. We haven't lost anyone, and I think we won't need to kill more than about a hundred –"

"You're going to _shoot them?_"

"We can't tolerate –"

"No, you idiot!" Cyrus shouted, grabbing her by the collar. "You shoot them, and you're giving them the flashpoint they want! Do you want chaos out there? Get out there and solve this without lining up a row of bodies!"

The commander scowled. "I've already given the orders."

Cyrus shoved her aside and pointed at the Peacekeeper who had brought him in. "You! You're with me. We're going out there."

He wheeled and hurried out of the building before the commander could get in another word. "What are you trying to accomplish, sir?" his Peacekeeper guard demanded, hot on his heels. "There's no stopping these people once they've gotten riled up!"

"I'm going to try," Cyrus growled.

Black smoke billowed on the horizon as Cyrus and his guard took off in a car towards the docks. The shouting had grown louder, more varied. The riot was gaining steam.

"You're not going to solve this by yourself, Counselor," the Peacekeeper said as he drove, tearing up the street and past run-down houses as fast as he could go. "Mobs don't answer to reason."

"I am not admitting I failed to Snow," Cyrus said. "Give me your sidearm."

"What?"

"Your pistol. Give it to me. I'm not shooting if I can help it, but if I get pinned down, I want an out."

Three rows of Peacekeepers lined up shoulder-to-shoulder at the southernmost pier on the docks, the first row holding up man-sized riot shields in a defensive position. Most of the trawlers were still docked: News of the previous day's sinking had spread fast. Plans for the brawl had spread faster. This wasn't just spontaneous; someone had planned the riot. Hundreds, maybe even a thousand angry rioters squared off fifty yards away from the Peacekeepers, up a wide, open hill adjacent to a row of canneries. The mob had been hard at work: Already, red graffiti on the walls of the factories spelled out lewd insults and messages towards the Peacekeepers.

"They're not fighting yet," Cyrus exhaled. "We still have time. Hold here. Out."

He leapt out of the car before his guard had even stopped the car. Before he made it far, a burly Peacekeeper toting a megaphone stopped him with a hand to his chest. "Counselor? No place for you here, sir. This is about to get ugly."

"I'm stopping it from getting ugly. Give me that."

"The megaphone? They're not going to talk. This isn't the Capitol."

"So I'm going to talk first. Give it to me. Now."

Cyrus pulled the megaphone away from the Peacekeeper, pushed his way through the ranks of soldiers, and surveyed the scene. _Those people look like rabble from here_, he thought. _But I bet that's not true at all_. He guessed they had more than rocks and bricks at their disposal, and even if they weren't a professional military force like the Peacekeepers behind him, they outnumbered them by a substantial margin.

Putting the megaphone to his lips, Cyrus decided to take a leap of faith for a peaceful outcome. "Hello," he called, the megaphone booming over the shouts of the mob. "District 4, I understand your anger. I understand –"

"Firebomb! Down!"

An iron grip yanked Cyrus back and to the ground before he could say another word. A row of shields raised in unison across the Peacekeeper lines as a Molotov cocktail arced through the air. Fire exploded across a shield down the ranks, and the snap of a row of guns froze Cyrus where he lay.

"No!" Cyrus shouted.

A cry rang out from up the hill as the first rank of the mob sprinted down towards their opponents. Cyrus's guard dragged him back as he fought for the megaphone, swearing, cursing as his failure to keep the district under control unfolded before him.

"Don't shoot you fools!" Cyrus yelled. "Don't shoot!"

Another Molotov cocktail splashed flame across a riot shield.

_Crack!_

Two dozen rifles shouted in District 4.

**/ / / / /**

I couldn't believe I was doing this.

Acheron had dozed off after a long wait following the fight, a few minutes before I'd started down the hill myself. The arena's hovercraft had taken Delfin's body long ago; now, only his lonely spear lying atop blood-stained sand marked that he'd ever stepped foot in this place. I didn't have time to mourn, even if I'd wanted to. He'd wounded Acheron and tired him out. _Victors don't pass up opportunities, Terra_, I told myself.

I wouldn't get a better opportunity than this against the boy from District 2.

A trickle of sand streamed down the hill from my footsteps. I had to be careful: One loud stumble or cry and I could wake up my sleeping opponent. He'd refused to kill me before, but I doubted he'd do so again. Acheron had honor, but he wasn't stupid. His fight against Delfin had proven that.

Besides, I wasn't unarmed this time. I clutched my dagger as if it would run away from me if I slackened my grip.

_Boom!_ Thunder rang out, and I froze in my steps as a flurry of lightning lit up the square. On Acheron slept. _Close call, Terra_. Step by tiny step, I inched forward down the hill and towards the back of the buildings that surrounded the plaza. I couldn't approach him for a frontal attack like Delfin had done. That certainly hadn't worked out well for him, and he had experience and a big freakin' weapon. I had to think smarter.

That the Gamesmakers were letting me get away with this struck me as odd. Were we the last two tributes? Would they wake him up for some climactic battle before I got close enough? If so, I was toast. Acheron would snap my neck like a twig. The boy was probably twice as massive as I was, and his arms were the size of trucks. Even this late into the Games, Acheron looked like he was doing just fine.

_No_, I told myself, more for reassurance than because I was sure of it. _There's got to be one other kid out there. Maybe the survivor from 1, or someone else you've forgotten about. _

The thought wasn't as reassuring as I'd hoped.

After what seemed like an hour, I clambered down the last few feet of the hill and scuffled behind the closest building. It was little more than a burnt-out husk. Rocks and ash littered the ground all around it, but as the lightning flashes took a break, I couldn't make out the dark interior. I squinted. Something was moving inside.

I squinted harder. Not something. Some things. _Snakes_.

Dozens of serpents coiled and writhed around fallen rocks and bricks inside the hut. I recoiled. Was this some sort of Gamesmaker message to lure Acheron into an open fight, like the boy from 7 had tried? I'd survived that more on luck than anything. I'd survived the entire _arena_ on luck. I wasn't going to risk everything on a building full of deadly animals again. For all I knew, they'd bite me this time.

My skin prickled as I inched my way closer to the square and the sleeping Acheron. This whole thing felt wrong. I'd felt terrible about killing the boy from 7, about mercy-killing Glenn, about watching Ember die. Now I wasn't reacting to a threat or someone's plea. Now I wasn't just killing. I was planning a murder. I was facing two choices now - die, or win the Games the only way I could: By turning to the most evil act imaginable. I abhorred myself, but I wanted to go home. Gods, I didn't want to die.

_Perfection is boring_, I heard Elan's words echo in my head again. _Entertainment is from the underdogs, or the cowards, or the villains, or the monsters_.

Acheron's snores were soft and slow. He'd been so tired he'd held on to his sword as he'd fallen asleep against the wall of the next building over, and now the weapon lay limp on the ground beside his hand. It was too close. If I messed up once, just once, he'd hear me and gore me faster than I could blink.

I crept closer. My heart threatened to break free from my chest.

_Snap!_ I froze. I'd watched him for a step too long and tread right on a pair of coals from the smoldering fire. Acheron mumbled in his sleep, turned his head…and stayed asleep.

_Too close_.

He was close enough to touch now if I reached out. Closer. I snuck forward on all fours until I sidled up right beside him on the other side from his sword. It was time. I had to do it. Had to.

I knelt in the sand, gripped my dagger with both hands, raised it up, and – and couldn't do it.

_Do it. Do it!_

I clenched my teeth. _I can't do it._

I couldn't kill him like this. Not asleep. Not defenseless. He'd let me live when he could've murdered me. I remembered Tethys snapping at Delfin for killing the girl from 6 while asleep. I couldn't do the same. Couldn't.

One chance. I'd give him one chance to beat me. A little chance, a small chance, but one nonetheless. I couldn't live with myself otherwise.

I leaned down near his ear and whispered, "Acheron?"

His eyes opened.

Before I had time to react, Acheron reached out and snared me by the throat. Pain exploded. The moment blurred. His hand went for the sword. My hand spasmed. Something felt warm and wet.

Acheron's grip loosened. I choked, coughed, and rolled over away from him, gripping my dagger with both hands and aiming it towards him, ready for a fight.

I wouldn't get one. My blade dripped with blood. In front of me, Acheron grabbed his neck, struggling and gurgling as his life poured out of the wound I'd made. His legs kicked frantically. His eyes flitted about like a rabid animal's gaze, bouncing from here to there, to the coals, to the hill, to me. His skin turned pale.

Time stopped. Dust hung in the air, and the flickers of the dying campfire froze as if immortalized in a portrait. Only Acheron moved in front of me, but not all of him. Not his kicking legs. Not his blood. Just his lips.

He tried to say something, but nothing came out. I could only read his lips: _How?_

The next sound wasn't from him. It was from a cannon.

_Boom!_

I jerked back and fell on my rear. _What did I do?_ I killed him. I murdered him. I slaughtered him like an animal. I hadn't mean to. The knife, it had…it had slipped. My hand had moved as if listening to its own commands. I hadn't done it, I had focused on his hand around my neck. It just overwhelmed me. How was I supposed to think then?

_Oh my God, Terra_.

My stomach somersaulted. As I turned over and dry-heaved into the sand, something else called out in the sky above me. It wasn't thunder. It was a voice. Someone was –

"_Hukk!_"

Bile bit at my throat as I lurched violently.

"Tributes!"

Wait a minute. I clutched my stomach and looked up. Against the clouds, someone had shone the first light I'd seen besides the constant flashes of lightning. It was the Capitol seal, an eagle li up for the entire arena to see. After so many days of darkness, it looked like the sun.

"You have fought well, tributes," the voice called. _Cicero Templesmith?_ The voice and name didn't feel real anymore. _Had I really talked to that man once?_ "And now we come to this, the final showdown. Two of you still stand. Only one can emerge."

A red flare shot up in the horizon from over the hill, back towards the city and the heart of darkness within. "The Head Gamesmaker has lit up a destination for the two of you," Cicero called. "An arena inside of this arena that has delighted us with so many thrills and turns. Now we have one more. But you'd better get moving, you two. Don't make us wait too long. You might just regret it."

My hand shook. I stared down at Acheron's body and quivered. I wasn't done. I had to do this again. One more life. One more step down into the darkness.


	26. Rage

_**+ Thanks again to Dancing-Souls for the review, and to the new faves/follows! Violence follows. Because Hunger Games.**_

**/ / / / /**

No more bodies lay before me. Only the burnt-out coals of the fire amid the black sand remained, the latter too dark to reveal the blood that stained it. The night watched above for my next move.

My stomach twinged. I knew it was from more than just hunger as I clenched my teeth and clamped my hand over my gut. The revulsion of seeing Acheron's fingers twitching as the boy's life spurted from his throat lingered. _Squirk!_ I could still hear the blood sloshing in my ear when I closed my eyes.

It wasn't supposed to have felt that way. I remembered watching the Games year after year back home: Sure, the deaths were gruesome. The faces of the dying kids were always horrific. The blood disgusted me. But even killing the boy from District 7 and Glenn hadn't felt like a crime. One had struck first while the other had asked for death, a kind of mercy I hadn't understood until this arena had swallowed me up. Now, however, I could no longer defend my actions.

A strong, hot breeze dusted me with sand as I rose to my feet. I still had a job to do, and out there in the dead city, someone, one last survivor of this madness, waited for me. He could've been anyone – the remaining kid from District 1, maybe – but I couldn't wait here forever. Moping around would bring down the Gamesmakers' wrath upon me: With two tributes left, they'd want a tidy conclusion to their fun.

I couldn't take my dagger with me, however. It was stained, tainted. I felt putrid even holding it, and I threw it away into the desert without a second's hesitation. Delfin had left me a much better weapon, anyway. His spear still lay in the sand, and although it felt strange in my hands when I picked it up and curled my fingers around its steel shaft, its sharp, long blade and light weight made me feel something else, something strange and alien in the lurching darkness, yet energizing and welcome for what I knew came next. I felt powerful.

The thoughts tilted my mind back and forth as I headed off back into the city, taking with me nothing but Delfin's polearm. Killer, vanquisher, survivor. I was one of those and all of those, and through the darkness of the weight of my bloody path emerged a pinprick of strength. Was this what it was to be a victor? To hate and love the two sides of yourself until you went crazy from cognitive dissonance?

Something roared. I started and backed against the wall of a collapsed stone tower, holding the spear out in front of me and breathing hard. This walk to destiny had me on edge.

_Boom._ Thunder, not a cannon. The Gamesmakers wouldn't let their arena end with a slipshod death now.

The city looked a shade darker as I hiked towards a red glow in the distance, a place where I guessed the Gamesmakers' finale waited for me. Lightning flashed less often, and only the faint green glow from clusters of the hallucinogenic spores I'd encountered twice now gave much light beyond the arena's shadowy ambiance. The jagged ruins looked ready to strike out from every dark alleyway. Loose stones and blocks lurked on the street, ready to trip me and sprain an ankle. Even the air itself teased me with the sound of scurrying feet on the pavement.

Fur brushed my leg.

Dozens of rats hurried between and around my feet, scampering down the road as if fire raged behind them. The sight of them alone raised goosebumps down my neck. _Rats_. I'd run into them before, too, and I knew what followed.

I threw away all notions of caution. The memory of a knife sticking out of Ember's chest and the black pit made me sprint down the street, ignoring the rubble and rocks in an effort to rush as fast as I could towards the Gamesmakers' glow. The streets blended together from one cobblestone road to the next. The granite buildings I ran past looked familiar somehow, but my aching lungs and the fear in my mind overrode any recognition.

Fear caught up with me too soon.

I rushed around a bend only to stumble into a dead end. Towers and longhouses surrounded me on both sides and in front, and except for a narrow, glowing slit between two buildings before me, I couldn't see a way out. I turned around to backtrack. From down the road I'd come, he stared.

The mutt. The ghoul. Whatever it was, the thing that had killed Ember and nearly killed me – twice – cut off my escape route. Its inky maw of a mouth spoke silently of death. Its two pinprick white eyes glared at me with an animal rage.

I wasn't going that way.

A greenish glow grew in the slit in front of me as I sprinted towards it and slipped inside. It grew stronger and brighter down a low, sloping hill – and as I hurried down, a brief moment of realization broke through the panic flooding my mind. I had been here before. Horror lurked below just as it lurked behind.

But something else was down here, too.

The mutt behind me howled as I wound my way down the path. I'd lost sight of it despite numerous glances over my shoulder, but I doubted it would let me go that soon. A rock tripped me up as I ran. I stumbled, fell, and landed with both hands in front of me into cold, black, ankle-deep water. The spores thickened down here, more so than when Delfin, Tethys, and I had fought through the dark, and after just a minute stumbling about I felt woozy.

Another roar. I had to find an escape route fast.

I couldn't see more than two feet in front of me between the black and the spores. I coughed and spat up phlegm, holding up the fabric of my shirt over my mouth to breathe easier as I floundered about. Something splashed off to my left, and far ahead I heard the sound of grating metal. I rubbed my eyes to clear the fog from my vision and held back the urge to cough again. _Don't let it hear you, Terra. Be quiet!_

_Shhhhang!_ I squinted my eyes at the sound of grating, as if someone where running a stone over a piece of metal. _Dammit_. I shook my head to clear my mind. I couldn't afford to get confused again down here. One dreamy hallucination would lead me right into my death.

"Is that what you really think?"

I stopped, stunned. I recognized that voice. In a glow of spores up ahead, someone sat cross-legged on a long, flat rock, running a whetstone over the edge of a short sword. _Shhhhang!_ It was just a hallucination. _It's just a hallucination, Terra. Terra, come on. Terra!_

The man pitched his stone aside, raised his sword to eye level, and looked up. Amid the fog of spores, Daud smiled at me.

"Still got any misconceptions about this place?" he said, running a hand over his sword. Blood trickled down his bare arm. "No shiny towers and pretty dresses anymore. Just Templesmith serenading your kills to the sound of applause."

A howl in the darkness behind me drew my attention away for a moment, but Daud – the hallucination, the whatever – brought it back with a slap of his sword against the rock. _Clang!_

"So why don't you tell me something, girl, killer to killer," he said. "How does being a victor feel?"

I didn't get time to come up with an answer. A vise clamped down on my shoulder from behind and a catapult hurled me into the darkness. Whatever I was hallucinating broke apart as I slammed into the water, the wind knocked from my lungs and my spear flying off to my left. I gasped and lurched for my weapon, groping through the black until a hand clamped around my neck.

It had found me. I squirmed and writhed as the mutt lifted me off my feet. Pain exploded around my neck. Black skin and a yawning void of a mouth confronted me. My ears rang, and over them I heard only my tiny, frantic attempts to breathe. I struck out with my hand in a desperate attempt to push away the mutt. My fist connected against an immovable object with steel for skin and boulders for muscle.

I didn't see my life flash before my eyes. I didn't see anything but the darkness. I only smelled something oily, something foul.

The grip around my neck slackened suddenly. The mutt lurched, and its tiny white eyes widened in something approaching surprise. I fell from its grip into the water, choking and sputtering.

The mutt had more to worry about than just me.

A pale trunk had wrapped itself around its right leg. Goo oozed down the mutt's calf as it howled and slammed its fist into the tentacle, freeing itself for a moment before another visitor screeched in the void. A trio of needle-lined tentacles arrived in its place, lashing out and snaring my attacker around its waist and shoulders. The mutt struggled as the tentacles pulled it into the darkness little by little, and I took my chance. _Let's go, Terra_.

Off in the distance, a cluster of spores glowed brightly – and veered up. _Up. Escape!_ I splashed my way through the water until I found my spear lying in the muck and hurried away, the cacophony of a vicious struggle behind me urging me on, faster and faster. Ahead, the ground tilted up just so slightly.

Behind me, my attacker had lost. Amid a swarm of greasy pale tendrils, a trio of petal-like flanges had closed around the mutt's head. The water monster that I'd run into twice before dragged the mutt away to the sound of muffled whimpering.

My neck throbbed as I stumbled higher and higher up the hill. _Can being a victor feel any worse?_

A flash of lightning shined through a slit ahead of me after a minute. But this exit wasn't the same place I'd entered: Rather than dark and full of crumbling ruins, I shuffled out into an avenue lined with color. Flickering torches hung from the sides of buildings in much better shape than the rubble I'd left behind. White limestone walls overlooked a street paved with pale red brick. I nearly fell over when I saw something along the side of the road that I figured I may never see again: A flower. All by itself, a lone purple blossom shined in the torchlight.

Ahead, sandstone columns reached high into the sky, supporting an arch bathed in bright yellow light. I gripped my spear tighter and lumbered forward. This was all out of place. None of this, the light, the color, the flower, none of it felt right in this arena that had confronted me with only blow after blow after blow so far.

A grand sight awaited me just after the archway. A half circle of stone-cut seats rose up in two decks before me, like some sort of ancient amphitheater missing its crowd. A towering edifice rose up around and behind me, with more columns arranged in a single row stretching out in both directions. Sand, not the black sand of the desert but red sand that reminded me of home, covered a small stage between the archway and the seats.

It wasn't the whole arrangement that surprised the most, however. It was who sat cross-legged at the base of the seats, digging small pits into the sand with his feet, that amazed me. It wasn't anyone from District 1 who had survived this long. It was the last person I suspected would make it this far.

I'd seen this boy before. I remembered the first thing I'd thought about him: _Skinny, worried, and like me, I bet the odds are against him_. It was the boy from District 3.

Forget about surviving; he didn't even look worse for wear. He was still skinny, but he didn't look half as dirty as I felt with my hair covered in the muck from the catacombs. His cheeks looked hollow, but he didn't look half as anxious as he had that first day of training. My heart sank as I saw he cradled a short sword in one hand. Yet unlike every weapon I'd carried so far – including Delfin's spear that I now clung to as if it would fly away at a moment's notice – his blade was clean.

He looked up as I walked in, but he didn't get up. All he did was say, "Hey."

I dug the butt of my spear into the sand and held my ground a few dozen feet away. What was I supposed to say to him? "Did you wait a while?"

"Not that long," he said with a shrug. "I had to hike here. Fancy place they want us to kill each other at."

I pulled up my spear and held it out, but he only smirked at me. "You really are getting eager about this whole killing thing," he said. "I'd be, what, number three for you, Terra? Or did you kill anyone before you teamed up with Ember?"

"How the hell do you know my name? Or Ember's?"

"Give me a break. I knew everyone's names. I saw what you were doing back in training, looking around and all. Watching people. You think you were the only one of us who figured we had better odds getting to know what everyone else did rather than stabbing others? By the looks of things, you just didn't know what you were good at."

He stood up and kicked sand over the pits he'd dug. "You make a lot of noise. So did everyone else. There were a couple times where I thought you'd find me, though – or at least the others you were with. Back when you and Ember were walking around the outskirts? I watched you two. He found that wrapper I'd thrown away a bit carelessly, but you two were just talking so much that you didn't even bother to look for me. I'd been scrounging off of what the two from 1 were throwing away, but I followed you two for a bit. Saw whatever the hell that thing was throw a knife into Ember's chest. Ouch. Poor kid. Seemed like a good guy."

"I bet you really care."

"More than you, I'm guessing. Nice way to kill Glenn, by the way. You just broke his head like that. I mean, ugh."

"How long were you following me?"

"Not that long. After the thing took you I ran away and started tracking Acheron. He left a trail too: Food scraps, pieces of trash, whatever. I used 'em. Guy was noisy and he never noticed me. I _did_ think your two new buddies from 4 would get me, though," said the boy from 3 with a grimace. "My mentors parachuted in some food while I was watching you look after Tethys. Delfin, the guy from 4? Yeah, he was sniffing around when he heard that. Close shave."

I swallowed hard. The image of Tethys whimpering on the ground flashed in front of me alongside Delfin keeping watch, his face angry and depressed at the same time. I remembered Delfin snarling at me to be quiet, hunting around outside our camp right before all hell had broken loose. This kid had followed all of us that quietly and had never tried to kill us?

I frowned. "Why'd you just watch everyone, then?"

"You really aren't that bright," he scoffed. "I didn't even have to do anything but stay quiet. You bumbled about like cow, getting into all sorts of trouble. All of you did. In this place? Dumb. It's dark, bad things are prowling around. Like I was really gonna hoof it and take on the elements."

Heat rose in my face. I didn't like being called stupid by this kid. He was the last one standing in my way. I wanted to go home, and here he was mocking me. "At least I was brave enough to do it," I spat.

"Does that make you mad?" he said. His face was the coolest thing I'd seen in the arena. "Bad idea on my part, I guess. You're probably gonna stab me in my sleep next."

"Acheron wasn't asleep when that happened?"

"'When that happened.' Nice phrasing. It shifts the blame away from you."

"I didn't have a choice!"

"Sure you did. I haven't killed anyone, Terra. My hands are clean. I'm still innocent. You're the monster here."

Anger welled up in my head. He was giving me _reason_ to kill him. I could do it. I didn't have a choice now either, really. I had to do it.

"Are we gonna fight then, or what?" I asked.

"You'd like that, huh?" he said. "Y'know, back home in 3, we have a lot of replays of the old Games on TV. I've watched a bundle. I remember watching back a re-run of the 71st Games, and winner of that one…damn, she just looked like such a coward through the first half of everything. Then she came out halfway through the arena and started murdering everything. Johanna, that was her name. Johanna Mason. You remind me a bit of her, except you actually believe you're still doing the right thing."

He glanced down at his sword and sighed. "But y'know, I do want to go home. I have people I care about. I swore stepping in here that I wouldn't kill anyone, but given what I've seen you do…I'm just gonna swallow my pride this one time. Bet you don't know how to use that spear."

I bit my lip. "Bet you don't know how to use that sword, either."

"You're right. Let's play."

I lowered my stance, held out my spear, and moved in on him. He really didn't know how to wield that sword: The boy from 3 twisted it in one hand, keeping the other behind his back as I crept closer. I could probably knock it away and finish this quickly.

When I moved just outside of my spear's range, however, he flung his hand forward and threw a cloud of sand at my eyes. I stumbled back, rubbing at them frantically and coughing. I raised my spear just in time to block a wide, wild swipe with his sword.

_Clang!_

I jumped back and squared off. His eyes weren't so clear now. A pale shade of anxiety crossed his face. Fighting was uncharted territory for this boy. He couldn't just watch me anymore.

_Clang!_ I stabbed at him with my spear and missed as he dodged aside by inches. The boy swung at me in an overhead arc. I ducked and hit his knee with the back of my spear. He grunted, spun, and blocked my spearhead just as I aimed for a killing blow at his chest.

We danced back and forth in a bumbling, slashing waltz with death. It was probably an eyesore for the audience after Delfin and Acheron's fight, but I panted as I stepped in and out of the boy's range as I tried to hit him. I swept my spear along the ground at his feet, and he just narrowly jumped over my blade, the metal clipping the very edge of his boots.

He swung again, and I countered. This time though, rather than rearing back on defense, he lurched forward and grabbed my spear shaft with one hand. I tugged at it back, but as he swung his sword with his free hand, I let go and jumped back.

Just like that he'd disarmed me. The boy tossed aside my spear and advanced with his sword, his eyes reddening with bloody lines. My heart throbbed.

"I can see how you got used to this," he huffed. "But I wanna go home. Sorry."

He pulled back his sword for a killing blow. In a moment of idiotic bravery, I rushed at him and tackled him around his chest, driving both of us to the ground. The boy lost control of his sword. It clattered out of reach against a column behind us.

We both froze for a split second. He moved first, jumping to his feet and kicking my square in the gut. I _oomphed_ in pain, winced, and swung wildly. My fist connected with something fleshy. The boy staggered back, clutching his groin with both hands and biting his lip.

In that moment I spotted a loose stone to my left. As I reached over to pick it up, however, the boy landed back on top of me, holding one arm down while punching my neck with the other. I coughed and reacted just in time as he drove his thumb down towards my eye.

It wasn't a moment too soon. I held his wrist with my free hand as he struggled to drive it forward. He strained. Veins bulged on his forehead. Panic surged through me as I felt him winning the battle. Little by little, the skinny boy from 3 overpowered me.

Instinct took over. I drove my knee into his stomach and turned my head at the last second. He grunted and fell on top of me, giving me just the time to reach out the extra inch and grab the stone.

_Wham!_

I smashed it straight into his temple. He cried in pain and staggered to his feet, but I wasn't going to let him go. Anger surged through my veins. It was more than anger. It was hatred.

_Wham!_

I screamed and slammed the rock into his head again, driving him to the ground.

_Wham!_

Another blow. Another scream. Another cry of pain.

_Wham!_

I howled like a crazed banshee as I hit him again and again. He rolled over onto his side, blood streaming down his temple, his arms shaking, his body quivering. I barely saw it. Rage tinted everything.

_Wham!_

I struck him one last time. My last opponent lay still.

_Boom!_

I didn't comprehend what the cannon meant at first. The boy's dead body didn't make me retch and cry like with Glenn and Acheron and the boy from 7. He had dared me to attack him, and I had. Justified? I felt more than justified by this. I felt stronger than I ever had in this arena.

It took Cicero Templesmith's voice calling out across the arena to drown out the rushing in my ears. A light shined in the darkness of the sky, and a sleek silver wedge, a hovercraft, cut through the clouds. Then it hit me. I had done more than satisfy my anger.

I'd won.

I pitched aside my bloody rock and looked one more time at the boy's body. Maybe he hadn't meant what he'd said. Maybe I'd regret this later, but I didn't have room for regret now. My neck throbbed in pain and my stomach ached, but I was going home. I could leave this all behind.

Consequences be damned.


	27. END BOOK 1

_**+ Thanks to Dancing-Souls and emily j for the reviews! This is the concluding chapter of part one; thanks to everyone who's read along throughout the story! All subsequent parts will be kept on this thread so you don't have to jump around from link to link – next chapter will start part two.**_

**/ / / / /**

"Don't stand out there all day."

Cyrus gritted his teeth and pushed past the oaken doors to the Assembly Hall. The gold Capitol eagle stretching its wings across the great meeting table glittered in the morning light. Brilliant fractals etched fanciful designs across the floor, slowly twisting and turning as the sun rose above the roof's skylights. The lapis sculptures and jade figurines along the walls didn't look so regal to Cyrus today, though. Everything seemed a bit dimmer, a bit duller, as if focused through a grainy lens.

He knew bad news awaited as soon as he saw Taurus Sharpe sitting to Creon's right at the head of the table.

They weren't alone. Lucrezia ran a hand through her white hair, the ice-blue dye of her skin looking particularly chilling. Across from them to Creon's left, Galan Greene fidgeted with his hands. Given the way Creon's eyebrows creased like an eagle's glare, Cyrus figured he was short on allies.

"Take a seat," the president motioned towards the lonely chair nearest the door.

Cyrus had barely settled down before the doors swung open again. Julian Tercio strolled in with a bronze goblet cupped in one hand, his hair unkempt and a maroon stain running down one sleeve of his loose-fitting white shirt. "Nice of you all to wait for me," he said, plopping down in a chair to Cyrus's right. "Hope there aren't assigned seats. I don't want to walk halfway around the table, you know."

"You're late," admonished Taurus. His face didn't flinch an inch despite the stench of liquor reeking from Julian's clothes.

Julian waved him off and took a swig from his cup. "Good day to be late. There's a drunk passed out on every corner. The Games end and every toilet in the city overflows. I should give you credit, though. The longer I'm in here, the less time I'm fixing problems out there. I much prefer it in here. Wonderful lighting, opulent decorations –"

Creon coughed and cut him off. "Cyrus," he said, his voice grave. "You're the main point of this meeting. You told me you'd ease District 4's tensions. You didn't do a very good job."

"I spoke with Rio West," Cyrus said. He placed his palm on the table to steady himself as his heart pounded. This wouldn't be a meeting – it would be an interrogation. "We came to an understanding. If not for random chance – an anarchist, a terrorist, a trigger-happy drone –"

"So you blame what happened on chance?" Taurus interjected. "Twenty-three dead, including two Peacekeepers? Mere happenstance?"

"One of their trawlers sunk near the district's boundary," said Cyrus. He clenched his fist to keep anger and bile from rising up. Who was Taurus to assume everything? He had hardly spent more than a day in District 4 his whole life. "Bad timing. Chance. Call it what you will, but I had a peace brokered before that occurred. With how tense the whole district has been the last few years since their hauls have declined, a flashpoint like this was bound to spark something bad. The poor are hungry there. They want someone to blame."

Lucrezia raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like sympathy. Did you miss the part where two of our own died?"

"Our own is all of Panem!" Cyrus retorted. "Every time violence breaks out, we're risking so much more than just a few dead Peacekeepers! If the district –"

Creon pounded the table. "The _district_ will know its place!" he growled. "They'll step in line or I'll drag them back to it!"

A moment of silence hung over the table. Cyrus looked down at his lap as his throat clenched. It was funny what a few days of turbulence had done. Since he'd left the Capitol, bullets had flown in District 4 and Creon had taken a stern turn. From the way Galan Greene stayed silent and shifted his glance from one person to the next like a guilty child, Cyrus figured it wasn't only the riot that had angered the president.

"President – sir," Cyrus began. He needed to choose his words carefully here. "I know the situation's not good, but we can pacify District 4 without a show of force. As I said, their economy's been bad for a while now. That hits the most vulnerable of the district folk the hardest, those with the least to lose. We can start by fixing that instead. We give them a little slack and they'll ease up somewhat."

Taurus swooped in, a raptor zooming down for the kill above fleeing prey. "And we should justify a riot based on their own failures?" he said, leaning forward and just a bit closer to the president. "The rest of us - the other districts, too – should pay for District 4's lack of effort? If a child rebels, Cyrus, only a weak parent surrenders to their whims. You're childless; I don't expect you to know that. Allow me to tell you from experience that rolling over at the first sign of a tantrum only breeds disobedience."

"Agreed," said Creon. "You tried your method, Cyrus. It didn't work. I can respect your empathy, but I want order. If that means punishment will keep the peace, so be it."

Julian, who'd watched the whole interaction like a back-and-forth sparring match, coughed and spoke up: "Not that I want to interrupt a fascinating disagreement," he said, taking a quick gulp from his cup before continuing. "but perhaps there's something of a middle ground in all of this? After all, we don't nuke the entire Capitol after the Hunger Games end and everyone's falling down in drunken revelry in the middle of the Forum. That would make my job easier, but we don't do it all the same."

Lucrezia nodded, her lips terse. "He has a point."

"Taurus," Creon said, nodding to the man on his right. "See to it."

A brief splash of panic washed over Cyrus's mind. "Sir, I know I wasn't able to get things done in District 4 this time, but I can work this out. Give me another chance. I won't let you down."

"No, you won't," Creon said. "You have a place at my table, Cyrus, but not as Counselor. I have another job for you. One that's just come up."

He turned towards the Head Gamesmaker, and Cyrus saw his look of dissatisfaction turn to contempt. Creon's streaks of grey looked all the more pronounce as he narrowed his eyes. "I thought we'd agreed on a victor, Galan."

Galan bit his lip. "We did."

"So why did the results of your little game have a surprise in store for me? The boy from 3; that was our agreement. You said he'd be easy to mold into what we want."

"Not when he's dead," Julian scoffed, swishing around the last drops in his glass. "Corpses are known to be stiff."

"I, uh…" Galan stammered. "I wanted to have a little bit of fairness in the last fight. It's entertainment."

Taurus folded his arms. "That doesn't take precedence over results."

"I understand that."

"Do you? Victors are unpredictable and command the nation's spotlight. They're a lot easier to predict and control when we convince them what to think," Taurus said. He leaned forward, cast a sideways look at Creon, and went on. "Our last president didn't see their potential as eyes, ears, _and_ voices. Can we win over this…girl…who won?"

"We don't have much of a choice of who to play with now," Creon mused. "But that'll be your job, Cyrus. It's your job to make sure our latest victor is loyal, and not just because she says it. Make sure she believes it."

**/ / / / /**

I didn't remember much after the light.

A hovercraft, bathed in light. A man in white. A prick in my arm. Then nothing. Darkness. Then, after a long emptiness…light again.

I squinted as I blinked away sleep. Something hurt my eyes, something gold, something bright that shined in through the window to my right. It took me a few wipes at my eyes and a throbbing in my head to tell me what it was: The sun.

Sunlight. I hadn't seen the sun in what felt like years. It was beautiful, an orange-yellow ball bathing the distant mountain peaks in a robe of color and warmth. Silver towers, not crumbling and rocky but full of technology and life, glittered in the light. A flock of birds crossed high overhead, bringing neither death nor darkness but merely going on their way. None of it felt right after so long under the black, lightning-pierced sky.

Something shuddered to my left. "Hey," a warm voice that I both recognized and did not said. "Don't get up too fast."

I startled at the feeling of a warm hand in mine. It jerked back quickly, and when I glanced over, expecting danger rearing its head to chase me into some fog-filled tunnel, I was met only by the alarmed look on Finch's face.

Finch. It was a name – and a face – I both recognized and did not, like some fever dream that had slipped past my mind years ago.

"Did I hurt you?" she said as I struggled to put together the pieces. "Terra? Still feeling woozy?"

In a flash of realization, everything came together. I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I grabbed Finch's hand as if she'd run away from me and did the only thing I could do: I cried. I cried every last tear that had dried up above the black desert sand in the arena. I cried at the smell of flowers in the air and the sound of Finch's voice as she reassured me that, yes, she was there, that I wasn't stuck in some hallucinogenic loop deep in a hive of darkness.

"I'm not going anywhere, Terra," Finch said. She leaned down and pulled my face into her shoulder as tears ran down my face. "I'm not leaving this room, okay? You did so good, girl. So good."

That just made the tears flow harder. Nothing felt good. Now that I was in her arms, safe and warm, the past however long it had been came down on me like an anvil. Every move I made in the arena swirled through my thoughts, and what seemed logical or smart then now appeared the actions of a demon. "I'm sorry," I blubbered.

"Hey. You don't have anything to be sorry about."

"Yes I do," I choked. "I did things."

"Terra –"

"Bad things."

"Terra, listen to me," Finch said, her voice growing stronger. She cupped my face in her hands and set her jaw. "You didn't choose to be in this. You were picked, and the only thing you had to worry about was surviving. You did. You're here. That's all I care about. That's all anyone should care about."

"But –"

"Every single one of us had to do things we regret," Finch cut me off, her eyes still zeroed in on my own. "And for more than twenty years I've thought about what I've done. But you know what? Right now I don't care. I've waited so long to get someone out. So long. It ate away at me. It hurt. All I wanted was someone to come back. I told myself not to get attached to the kids I mentored every year, and every year I did anyway. But now that you're here…"

Finch blinked her eyes a few times and smiled. "I'm gonna take you home and we're gonna get through this."

I sniffed, nodded, and clutched her hand harder. Pain flickered through my wrist, and finally I noticed a tube running into one of my veins, the other end coiling through a hole in the wall. "How long am I gonna be here?" I said.

"Couple days at most," she said. "You lost a lot of weight in the arena. When you're a little stronger we'll worry about what's next."

"What's next?"

Finch paused and moved to say something when the door behind her slipped open. The face that came through was much easier to recognize. This one lacked all the softness and curves of Finch's expression, exchanging them for a hardness and steel that seemed so much more familiar.

"Awake?" said Daud. "How does being a victor feel?"

**/ / / / /**

"They've got a little resolution together. 4's quiet, if not content. Games are over. So what's next?"

Suleiman perched on the edge of the penthouse balcony overlooking the Capitol as the morning sun drifted over the mountains. He didn't want to hear Arrian talk right now. He wanted to lose himself in the view for just a moment, a brief, quiet moment before the chaotic din of the Capitol's machine whirred to life for another day's start. This was an ugly, ugly place, this filthy city of talk and games, but when the shallow creatures who called it home retreated back to their dens, it was capable of beauty. Quiet beauty.

"Nothing," Suleiman muttered, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "Nothing for now."

"Nothing? A man grows old doing nothing."

Suleiman glanced over his shoulder. Inside the penthouse, Arrian kicked his feet up on a lacquered wooden table and peeled an orange. _He looks so out of place here_, Suleiman thought. _Born in the slums and now reclining in one of the nicest vantage points in the city, yet he's so caught up in the future that he can't see the present_.

"Age has its advantages," said Suleiman, turning back towards the cityscape. He felt a pang of disappointment as he spotted a car driving out from beneath a tower several blocks away. _Go back inside, insect._ _You're ruining my view._ "But that's not the point."

"Enlighten me."

"Creon Snow wants control. Order. Let him have it for a little while. Let him believe in his fantasy. 4's not content, and it won't be quiet forever. The other districts have problems of their own, even if they're not in plain sight. Let them churn for a while."

"And in the meantime?"

Suleiman glanced up. Sunlight glanced off of the twelve-story Training Center far off in the distance, overlooking the Avenue of the Tributes lost somewhere beneath the maze of skyscrapers. Soon that building would be quiet again for another year, but not yet.

He smiled. "I'd like to make some friends in the meantime."


	28. BEGIN BOOK 2

_**+ Thanks for the review, Dancing-Souls! Here we go with chapter 1 of book 2. Here's where the main story really will begin its advance – book 1 was more of a prelude, between Terra's games and the riot in District 4, to the machinations ahead. Reviews always welcome, and thanks to all my readers!**_

**/ / / / /**

Arrian hated the sterility of this place.

The concrete walls, the slate gray neck-to-toe uniforms, the white lights, all of it made District 13 a high-tech labyrinth long since deprived of its humanity. The deeper he descended from the surface levels, the more Arrian pitied these people – and loathed their rulers. Fertility labs, level six. Armories, level nine. Battle shelters, level fifteen. Even poor, forlorn District 12 had a spirit. Isolation's great proboscis had sucked out District 13's life long ago.

Down in the bowels of the district were only lights and computers. Robots tended to these things, some with human skins and human eyes and human names, but robots nonetheless. Only an empty person could call them people.

Arrian could kill people. Shutting off machines didn't require a single thought.

He swiped a thin plastic card with a stranger's face across a door lit up with blue and red lights. "Secure Access Only" shouted at would-be intruders from the door's face, but a women's soft face greeted him with a, "Welcome, Garth Tanner! Access granted."

Garth Tanner lay dead on the bottom of an iced-over forest pool two miles from here.

Arrian had taken his clothes, his tools, and even his face and DNA. Cracking into District 13 was a hassle even for him, but he had played this job safe. Paranoia reeked from every corner of every hallway, and even the room lined with computers and bright blue screens that Arrian stepped into scoured him with suspicion. All the security and passwords and tests would drive anyone mad after a week. _Maybe that's what killed their birth rate,_ Arrian thought as he waved his card across the foremost computer in the room. _I wouldn't want to sleep with a lunatic machine, either._

Of course, the security state had its own weaknesses. Everyone expected Garth Tanner to be on duty right now, watching over these very consoles alone for the next two hours. Garth was a trusted worker, a loyal machine with more than twenty years on the job, one with rights to dig through all sorts of information in District 13's data vaults: Passwords, secure area access rights, personal data, and even weapons codes. No one thought Garth could be in two places at once.

Arrian didn't need fifteen minutes to get what he needed. _Or what someone else needs…_

After blowing aside biometric security, he was into the system and scooping out truckloads of data. Halfway into the download, however, a pleasant female voice welcoming a new visitor – _Welcome, Vance Ray!_ – grabbed Arrian's attention. An identically-uniformed man with all the hallmarks of District 13 living, from his short-cropped blonde hair to his tired, weary gray eyes, pushed open the door and grinned.

"I hope you cover two of my shifts for this," Vance Ray said in a worn-out voice crackling with overwork. "Gus tells me you're 'sick.' Two hours, really? That's all they give you?"

_Shit_. Rookie mistake. Arrian had tracked Garth's schedule and spied on the man for a week, timing his twelve-hour shift down here to the exact minute he left every day. He'd overlooked any last-minute adjustments, especially from something like District 13's infirmary. _They gave him ten hours off for a simple cold? _

Arrian rubbed at his eyes, scratching his lower left eyelid in annoyance just as he'd seen Garth do in his moments of confusion. "They told me four," he said, nodding back at the computer he was rifling through. "Come back in a couple. That way I won't owe you anything."

"I don't want you coughing all over this place for me," Vance said, closing the door behind him and folding his arms across his chest. "Look, I don't want to get in any trouble. Gus likes to rat to the old hag. The last thing I want is Coin herself looking over my performance reviews."

"That bad?"

"Nah, it's just…you know. Get your sick butt back to the infirmary."

"Can I run this first? It's a project. Almost done."

"A project? For what? Something of Coin's?"

Arrian shook his head and leaned in closer to the man. "No, it's…you might not know him. He handles special projects all over the place."

"Huh?"

"It's a job for Suleiman."

Arrian moved before Vance could blink. He clutched the worker's throat with one vise-like grip and plowed his other palm into Vance's skull. His neck snapped with a loud _crack_.

The computer beeped behind him as Vance's body slid to the floor. Arrian sighed. Great. Another body to get rid of, and this one deep in the bowels of District 13, just one floor up from the nuclear weapons control stations. These machines would wonder why two of their robots had shut down.

At least that wasn't Arrian's problem.

**/ / / / /**

Dust. Always the dust.

I pulled my yellow scarf across my nose and mouth, adjusted my shawl, and went back to trying and failing to figure out what was wrong with this last solar panel. I'd been at it for what felt like an hour now under the hot winter sun of the afternoon. For a moment I almost looked forward to getting on the train for my victory tour in a week and heading off for the districts and the Capitol. I remembered the high peaks surrounding the latter, the last thing watching me go as the train led me back to District 5 after the Games had ended. Snow would cover them now. It'd be cold and beautiful there. I'd never seen snow, but I could imagine it from lessons in school. White flakes floating down in a gentle drift from gray skies above, glistening as they blew between neon-lit towers.

Now, however, I only had dust. Dust, sand, sun, and this stupid panel that wouldn't cooperate.

"Honestly, why do you do this?" a boy crouching to my left asked. He was more of a man than a boy, probably about nineteen or twenty, with stubby blonde facial hair running across his chin and muscles poking through the loose folds of his tunic. Blaze was his name, and he probably looked better underneath all that tan clothing that we all wore out here on the electrical farms. The head-to-toe thin fabric kept the sun off our skin, but sometimes it just felt like a nuisance.

Right now, though, I didn't want to deal with the new guy's questions. Blaze had only been at work out here for just a few weeks, and I'd already given him no shortage of help figuring out this problem and that. I waved him away and focused on what I was doing: "I'm good at fixing things."

"Doesn't look like it."

"I did half your work for you today."

He shrugged and sat down cross-legged in the red dirt. "That was a really bad answer, anyway."

I scowled at him. "Why do you do it?"

"Duh. I need the money."

"So what were you doing before? Family business?"

"Don't have a family. Just this and that."

"Mm-hm," I muttered, fiddling with a switch on the panel's side. _Stupid goddamn thing._

Blaze sighed and dug a mound in the sand with his heel. "So you're just not gonna talk to me, Terra?"

"I am talking to you."

"You're just evading. You're not really talking."

"Big word. Evading."

"Fine. Forget it."

I yanked the scarf away from my face and rolled my eyes. "Because Finch told me to do something to take my mind off of things. I'm not gonna paint or sing songs or do whatever else victors are supposed to do. I'm not just gonna sit in my house and mope or cry all day, either. This is what I'm good at, so this is what I do. I work on these stupid solar panels that don't want to work."

"Yeah, you probably don't need the job for the money, I'm guessing."

"I told Orson to pay someone else what I'm supposed to make. Besides, he doesn't give me a schedule. I just show up. He's fine with it."

"Orson's a Peacekeeper. You really think he's paying someone else?"

I _harrumphed_ in frustration, both at the panel and at Blaze's small talk. "If you're just gonna insult me, why don't you go somewhere else?"

"I'm not insulting you."

"Look, I get it. I killed people and came back. Now I'm lighting the Capitol's power grid for fun and making the supervisor's job easier. Woo. I'm a bad girl. Thanks."

"You're not a bad person."

"That was real sincere."

"No, I watched. You were a little less grumpy, sure, but you were a decent person thrown into a bad situation. Anybody can get that."

"Well, anybody doesn't," I said, reaching under the panel and finding a trigger. Red lights lit up around its hot, black metal base with a series of loud _beeps_. "Ugh. Finally. And I'm just grumpy because this stupid thing took forever to work."

He grinned. "Heh. Well, I guess you can fix some things."

A hot wind blew a cloud of sand in my face. I coughed, spat up a dark ball of dust, and pulled my scarf back over my face. "That's the last one. I'm gonna go wait for the jeep to go home. Are you coming?"

It was only a short ride back on the Peacekeeper jeep that ferried us to and from our work sites. The sun hung low over District 5's deep rocky canyon as I left Blaze and the other workers behind to troop back towards the Victor's Village, nested in a secluded river bend a mile down the gorge. The towering, jagged, sunlit sandstone walls on either side of me had never bothered me before, but as I walked down a red sand path past the iron gates of the Village, I felt something close to claustrophobia. The open desert of the arena and the wide vistas of the Capitol – not to mention the sandy plains of the solar arrays that seemed to stretch on for infinity, or to however far away the district's electric fence was – made me yearn for space. Down here things were too close, too tight, and worst of all, too dark.

It only got worse every night. As the sun crested below the towering peak of the canyon and the river that ran through the gorge grew dark with shadow, I tromped up to the white wooden door of my new house. Home, I guess – I'd gone back to my family's home once since I'd returned. I didn't know if it was something I'd done, but they'd hardly made an effort to see me since.

"Terra, c'mon," my twin brother, Flint, had told me once when I'd met up with him around town. "You get why Mom and Dad are a little pissed at you, right?"

That had hurt. "What, because I'm still here and breathing?"

"You dissed Dad in front of the entire country. When you were with those other kids in the arena, you talked bad about him. Yeah, they're happy you came back. We all are –"

"They don't really show it."

"Well, they are. But Dad hears about it in jokes from people who come into the bar. All the time. How do you think it makes him feel?"

I hadn't cared. I still didn't. Flint could keep his logical answers and sense all he wanted. In the arena I'd been scared, terrified that death waited around every corner in that dark necropolis. I'd opened up my heart and feelings to the kids I called allies in there. If that angered my parents enough that they barely saw me, then fine. I'd wait as long as it took for them to get over their pride. They could keep their stupid cantina, their family business and their egos.

If I ever had kids, I told myself I wouldn't follow my parents' example.

My home felt empty as I pushed open my front door. Everything still looked untouched, from the oaken tables and blue cloth chairs to the white walls that I'd left unadorned by decorations. My window sills in my kitchen and living room were bare and spotless. I didn't want to be here, but as the shadows grew darker outside, I didn't want to go anywhere else, either. I did what I had to.

I turned on every damn light in the place.

_Click!_ Four lamps spilled yellow light across the green rug that covered my den's hardwood mahogany floors. _Click! _Light poured out of my kitchen windows onto the white-painted patio outside, its creaky wooden rocking chair looming large over a towering shadow. _Click!_ The Victor's Village lit up with the sun radiating from inside my house.

Every damn light. I didn't miss one, nor had I for every day since I'd been back.

_Squeak!_ Something scampered across the floor in my kitchen as I ignited a star inside the room. I froze when I saw it: A fat grey rat quivered on the floorboards near my cupboards, watching me with its beady black eyes for my next move. It needn't have worried: My next move was to run screaming up my steps.

_Rats_. Harbingers of horror. They swarmed and squeaked for faceless terror that ushered in dead children and darkness.

I dashed upstairs to my bedroom, cannoned onto the thick blue quilts flowing over both sides of my bed, and jammed my face into a pillow. I didn't move until I heard a loud crash from the street. Wary of some other demon coming to wreck my night, I peeked out my window until my eyes just crested the window sill.

Nothing. Just the street was out there, lit up with a fan of light reaching out in every direction.

_Slam!_ I jumped as my front door banged open. The sound of boots thumping against the floor panels told me that it wasn't nothing at all. I snuck out of my bed without so much as a creaky floorboard giving me away, arming myself with a loose brick that had sat in the corner of my bedroom since the day I'd moved in. Another bang from below: Whatever or whoever was downstairs, they weren't concerned about making noise.

Slow step by step I crept down my stairs, clutching my brick as if it would run off the moment my grip slackened. A pang of fear snaked across the back of my neck. District 5 didn't have much crime, but break-ins and thefts happened now and then to wealthier folks. Few of them faced a fight, and I had no idea what I was in for as soon as I spotted my intruder.

Whoever stomped about downstairs snorted. "You're loud. Where do you keep the real food?"

Oh.

I sighed, laid my brick down on an end table, and stepped into my kitchen. On the other side of the room, Daud rifled through my cabinets, tossing open the bronze-inlaid doors with the sensitivity of an earthquake. His mammoth shoulders and legs seemed to fill up every square inch of the kitchen, and I was surprised his head even made it into some of the cabinets he muttered into.

After checking the corners for the rat – now mysteriously disappeared, as if whisked away by some cackling Gamesmaker pulling strings from my walls – I said, "You could've said 'hi' at the door," I glanced at a full loaf of bread lying on the table. Daud had taken out his hunger on it with a kitchen knife straight to the crust. "You murdered my bread."

"Victimless crime," said my mentor. "How does someone else have as little food in their house as me?"

"The odds aren't in your favor."

"They never are."

I expected Daud to go on, but he plopped down in a chair and sliced off a jagged, mangled hunk of bread. "You can't get a plate?" I asked.

"No."

Figuring he'd be eating for a while, I sat down across from him and slumped over the tabletop. "Can't you just wait to eat for the tour?"

"I don't like jellied eels."

"I don't think they serve jellied eels."

"Yeah? I remember when I was that naïve about Capitol food. I was eighteen."

I picked at my thumbnail to ward off the din of Daud's chewing. "So what happens?"

"What?"

"What happens on the tour?"

"Nothing good."

"Like?"

He wiped an army of bread crumbs from his beard, scowled at me, and said, "You're that eager to get on the train again?"

"No. I mean…I just want to know. I want to at least have a clue so I'm not running headlong into whatever comes next for once."

"And you're asking me because Finch would just tell you everything's happy?"

"I'm asking you because I just thought it up, and you're here eating my food."

"That Finch bought for you."

"Yes."

He coughed. "You really don't want to know the details."

"Can I just get a summary, then?"

"Gods, you do want to know everything. Is this why you still work the plants? So you can know everything?"

"I do _that_ so I'm not moping around here thinking about what comes next all day! Daud, c'mon. I just don't want to be alone through all this again. Please."

"Well, you won't be alone thinking in your shrine to the Bright Lord, or whatever you've turned your house into," Daud said. "You want a summary? Fine. Disappointment. That's what's next."

"Disappointment?" I said. I folded my arms, unconvinced. "I'm not really expecting everything to be great on the tour."

"Not on the tour," he growled, standing up and shoving in his chair with a loud _screech_ that made the hairs on my neck stand up at attention. "In life, in whatever your dreams are now, disappointment. Imagine someone else writing the rest of your years, because they already have."

Panic rose as a knot in my throat. I bolted out of my chair and moved to block him from leaving. "Wait. Wait. Can you just…just explain? Please?"

"No," he said, curling his upper lip and scooting me out of the way with one hand.

"Why can't you talk about anything?" I snapped. My anxiety twisted into anger in a split second. "You just sit in your house all day or go to my dad's bar and drink whatever crap he serves. Is that why you just ignore me? At least Finch is still _mentoring_ –"

"You've got enough of what I think!" he yelled back. His voice was a blast of thunder against my protests. "I'll give you a crash course in disappointment right now. Go to the priest if you want answers. You'll get better ones than whatever you want from me."

He snatched up the ripped hunk of bread lying on my table, adding, "And go bug Finch for real food."


	29. The Capitol's Gears

_**+ Thanks for the review, Dancing-Souls!**_

**/ / / / /**

The night before the train came to pick me up, Glenn stopped by.

He didn't knock on my door. He didn't pull open every kitchen drawer and eat my food. He was just _there_, sitting in a chair beside my dining room table and turning my dagger from the arena over and over again in his hands. Pale light glinted off of its black blade from the lone unburnt bulb in the ceiling fixture fixture above. A shadow darkened the gulch in Glenn's head from where I'd driven my crowbar into his skull with a killing blow.

It had been bright outside on the street, as bright as the desert sun at high noon, but a dim gloom hazed over every corner of my house's interior. Distant thunder rumbled outside. _Clink. _Glenn tapped the dagger's blade against the tabletop and snorted.

"Going through the motions again?" he sighed. "At least _I_ got out in time. I guess we'll find out what kind of victor you'll be now."

_Clink_.

Morning sun illuminated dust floating through the air in my lonely kitchen. I tapped a kitchen knife against an empty glass, slumping forward with my chin on the tabletop and my elbows splayed out to either side. _Clink_. The house still smelled too clean and new, especially on mornings like this where sleep clawed at my eyes as memories pushed back. _Clink_.

"Can you at least touch your breakfast, Terra?"

Across the table, Finch leaned forward to catch my gaze. She frowned and twisted a knot of red hair around one finger. Frustrated with her efforts to get me to eat, I pushed my untouched plate of eggs and toast away and slumped back in my chair. "Not hungry," I murmured.

"Terra, sweetie, you have to eat. Cameras are here at noon, and you'll be too tired in four hours if you don't eat anything. That'll be sixteen hours without food in your stomach, and your prep team's supposed to be here in under an hour - "

"I don't want to eat, Finch."

"You can't just splurge on whatever's on the train until dinner. That'll just make you sick. Here, lemme make you something else. I think you have – "

"Finch, I don't want it!" I snapped, much louder and more aggressively than I'd intended.

I felt guilty the moment I saw her face. Finch's weary smile drooped with a flash of pain. She looked away, still twisting the knot of hair in her fingers as she said with a tired sigh, "Is there…something I can do to help you?"

"Just leave me alone!" I said. I rushed out of the kitchen before Finch could protest again, scrambling up my stairs as fast as my legs could take me and stumbling over the last few. I just heard my front door click shut – Finch had finally given up on me for today – before I rushed into my bedroom and slammed the door shut. Frustrated and feeling horrible about shutting Finch out when she as full of good intentions, I pressed my forehead to the door and sniffled as my nose ran.

Why did I have to shut people out like this? Daud, Finch, my family, I'd turned away from all of them in one way or another. My brother was right: I shouldn't have talked bad about my father on air during the games. That had just been the start: I'd barely seen Dawn since I'd been back, who was apparently too interested in her friends to deal with needy me. Now I'd pushed away even Finch, who kept trying her hardest to make me feel at home in this cold, lonely Victor's Village out here in the outskirts of the canyon. It felt terrible, yet…good, in a way. I did want to be alone. I didn't want to hurt anyone else with my moodiness and my thoughts.

Something shifted behind me, and I froze. My back was turned. I was vulnerable. It wasn't a demon or a tribute coming to strike me, however, but a quiet, stoic voice behind me speaking up that caught me off guard: "Perhaps a cold dismissal, but…understandable, from your position."

I spun. Behind me stood a short, head-to-toe, ashen gray cloak, its wearer hidden behind the cloth and the shadows in my bedroom. "Many times I've tried to warn Finch about unintended consequences," the man behind the cloak said. "But for all her smarts, she's never understood emotion. Numbers, yes. Logic, solutions, certainly. But the nuances of society and court…not so much."

He turned. Short, navy blue hair stuck out at odd angles from beneath the cloak's hood, framed by a gaunt face lit up by bright green eyes. Ever since that day of the Reaping when I'd welcomed an unexpected visitor before boarding the train to the Capitol, my escort had engineered a number of surprises. "She is right, you know," Elan Triste said, folding his hands in his cloak's long sleeves and appraising me with furrowed brows. "The food gets dreadful after the hundredth meal, and you'll have many more than that over a lifetime in the Capitol's arms."

I stammered out a reply: "Elan. I…Finch said you were coming later."

"Finch said your clean-up crew was coming later," he said. "I suspect they'll have to use every minute of their time. The dust does collect here. You didn't look quite so red the last time I saw you."

He sat down on my bed and pulled his hood back. Elan always struck me as odd for an escort: I'd seen enough Hunger Games screenings to see the other Capitol guides, dressed out in fancy get-ups and covered in make-up. My escort might have had his odd hair color, but besides that, he could have slunk through the streets of District 5 without so much as a second glance. He didn't sport any of the tattoos or body paint that had covered my stylist, Rhea. Even his accent was different from most of the Capitol folks I'd heard, lacking the traditional up speak but still slanting just effeminate enough to differentiate himself from the guys in District 5 like my brother, so eager to prove their manliness. Elan seemed to have no need for such status.

"Why'd you come early?" I asked, plopping down in a chair across from him and slinking down as far as I could. Embarrassment crept over me when I realized he'd heard my outburst over breakfast. "I thought we weren't leaving 'til late today for the Tour."

"Oh, we are," said Elan. "But the Tour isn't such a big deal."

"Standing in front of the country a dozen times isn't a big deal?"

"A photo op, maybe. But rumors have it in the Capitol that you have much more than just a photo op waiting for you."

I paused. Like with Elan, I figured he had more to say than just his introduction. Unlike Finch and Daud, he hid the real meat of what he meant behind so much fluff. "The last five months have been a flurry of conversations," he said. "Parties. Extravaganzas. The usual Capitol flair. And…meetings. Frantic discussions of the bureaucrats. You've gathered quite an audience, Terra, and it's not across the country. It's right in its heart."

"You see," he went on. "Most victors have a use in the Capitol."

"A _use_?" I cut him off, incredulous. Daud's advice echoed through my mind. _Disappointment awaits_.

Elan waved his hand in the air, searching for the right words. "Skilled people are valuable assets to anyone, Terra, Capitolian or not," he said. "And victors have a great many skills. Survival, certainly, and a head for understanding what's going on around them. But more than anything, you have desire. You're amongst an elite group now, and that scarcity, that rarity, makes you a prize for many in the Capitol with resources to spare. Some victors become little more than commodities to trade and sell between wealthy patrons. They become objects, not people."

I gulped. Elan might have tried to hide his meaning behind fancy words, but I knew exactly what he meant by that. "So…you mean…I'll have to…"

"Oh, likely not," he interjected. "But I'm here early to warn you about what very well might await, based on what I've heard. Before I say any of this…I need your word that you won't repeat to anyone. Daud. Finch. Your brother. Anyone."

Not much of a choice there. Even if I had objections, my curiosity got the better of me: "Alright. Secret."

"Panem teeters on chaos," said Elan. "In the closing days of your games, a riot broke out in District 4. Dozens of casualties. You see, Coriolanus Snow reigned for more than forty years. Now his son's been in power for just eleven months, and groups that have been under the Capitol's thumb for so long see an opportunity. A new regime, a new transition, and there's bound to be turbulence. It's turned out to be more than expected, and not all of it comes from the districts. The Capitol itself is a city of many faces, some of which you have never seen. It's not all rich and wealthy artists and socialites. The Capitol's home to its own poor, its own angry, even its own rebellious. They just do a better job of hiding and playing by the rulebook of power, which happens to be very thick."

"Unfortunately for you," he went on. "the Capitol has little access to those who bridge the gap between its shining city beneath the hills and the districts. Peacekeepers, sure, but they're more an occupying army than actual keepers of the peace. Mayors? Of course not. But victors…they have a foot in both worlds, the districts and the Capitol. They're useful tools to anyone who can realize their value and influence in both the Capitol and their homes. It just so happens that you are Creon Snow's first victor, the one he can wrap his hands around from inception and mold to his desires. That puts you in a…novel position."

Before Elan could go on, the bells from the Church of the Triad cut him off. _Clang! Clang! Clang!_ They called out eight times for the hour, drowning out everything else even this far from the city center. My escort pressed his eyes together and sighed. "The faiths have always upset me," he said, letting his last syllable slither off of his tongue as if he were loath to let it go. "Whether it's District 4's Storm Lord, District 2's Death, or your Triad. They all promise salvation, whether a man kills or is killed. A man with nothing to lose is the most dangerous one."

He glanced up at me at last, his stare so unnerving that I had to look away after just a moment. "Starting with today's Tour, Terra, Creon Snow and the rest of the Capitol elite plan to mold you into their machine. You protested against Finch just now at breakfast, but if you can't hold back your feelings, if you can't put on a pretty smile and act as they say while concealing your real thoughts and plans, you will be torn up like every other broken victor in Panem. You didn't just play a role for the Hunger Games. No matter what you feel now, you have to hide it and play the Capitol's game. If you can't, you won't last long as a victor. I'd hate to see you turn into another Finnick Odair or Annie Cresta."

**/ / / / /**

Lucrezia was waiting for Creon when he pushed open the heavy wooden doors to the Assembly Hall. This room always took the president by surprise at night. No more did hundreds of fractals of light dance upon the floor and the walls, scattered by the afternoon sun as it set over the Capital's mountains. Now a trio of chandeliers, crimson, gold, and white, filled every corner of the room with a glow even the neon urban skyline outside couldn't outshine. The lapis and jade statuettes of Capitolian leaders and icons lining the walls radiated with angelic hues in the light.

Everything shined, except for Lucrezia. Creon's spymaster looked as dour as ever in her seat across from the doors, her pale blue-dyed skin a dreary gash in the Hall's radiance. She glowered at the president as he entered. _The woman puts on a veil every time she leaves this palace_, Creon thought. _She can't even fake a smile now?_

"I was making sure Cassandra was asleep," Creon said as he let the door behind him close with barely a whisper. He didn't mind keeping Lucrezia waiting. His family, especially his growing granddaughter, meant more than this woman and her constant dire warnings and predictions. "Is this going to take long?"

She blinked twice, pursed her lips, and said, "To get to the bottom of things might take quite a long time."

He sat down and rubbed his eyes. "What is it, then?"

Lucrezia said nothing. She reached down below the table and laid a small silver dart on the table. It was barely the size of a fingernail, and when Creon looked closely at the four-pronged pyramid that capped its point, he could still see the stain of crimson blood on its tip.

"According to the autopsy, the weapon that killed Coriolanus Snow," Lucrezia said. "The reports say three anarchists, runaways smuggled from District 8 fired this from a half-mile away." She pointed over her shoulder at a tall, helical building off in the distance behind the glass wall that divided the Hall from its adjacent patio. Blue and green neon lights spiraled up the side of the tower, winking at Creon as they must have his father the night he was murdered. "That building. That was where they stood when they fired into this very room. One shot was enough to bury through the glass and land the killing injection, all in revenge for the crackdown that occurred in District 8 following the riots after the 87th Games."

"Yes, yes," Creon waved her story aside. "I know the report. We all do. I watched them hang."

Again, Lucrezia said nothing. She reached down again and pulled out a silver globe no larger than a ladybug. Unlike the dart, it was untouched: The light from the chandeliers still shined brilliantly on its surface. It could have been anything to Creon – a ball bearing, a tool, a piece of machinery, anything.

"The weapon that _actually_ killed your father," said Lucrezia, laying the globe on the table. _Clink_.

Creon frowned. "That looks about as dangerous as a gnat."

"It was only found three months ago by an avox cleaning a vent," Lucrezia said. "It's not a projectile like that dart. It's a mine."

She pressed a fingernail to a slit in the sphere's side. With a quiet _shhttth_, a tiny needle burst out from the globe's shell. It hung in the air no longer than a blink before it was gone, retracted back into the metal and leaving only the perfect sphere again.

Creon glanced back and forth between the globe and the dart. "Then what's that?"

"A diversion," Lucrezia explained, picking up the dart again and twirling it in the air. "The men you hanged fired this dart, thinking it was coated with a poison to kill your father. It carried a toxin, but a nonlethal one. At worst, it would have given Coriolanus a stomachache. Those three were duped. They were diversions, scapegoats to take the blame for the real killers."

She set down the dart again and ran her thumb over the globe. "I've had this analyzed ever since we found it. It's a one-use item, but we've picked up the essence of the poison it carried. Very lethal, very dangerous. From what my analysts can tell, it was laid on this very table the day your father died. Worse, it was programmed to identify him in a crowd, seek him out, and latch onto him, even if other people were in the room - ensuring that it would find its mark as long as Coriolanus set foot in here."

A shiver crossed Creon's neck. "What are you saying?"

"Someone recorded his exact facial features, his DNA, his wardrobe, everything," Lucrezia said. She folded her arms and leaned back with a smug smile, as if she'd cornered the murderers right there and then. "Someone had access to everything your father did. They made sure there would be no mistakes, and they programmed this globe with everything it would need to guarantee a kill."

"So the killers…"

"…were not aggravated anarchists from District 8, no. Whoever killed your father had known Coriolanus for a long time. It's a good bet he trusted them enough to let them into every room of this building. Your father's murderer was from the Capitol, and they most certainly have walked these halls many times."

Creon knew where this lead. "They're still here, then. In this building, probably, someone I've trusted, spoken too many times, given assignments…"

"It's a good bet," Lucrezia mused.

"Then – "

"Then your worst bet would be to tip them off that they've been uncovered," Lucrezia cut him off. "Going into hiding would be exactly the wrong move."

"I'm not running, woman," Creon snapped. "But I'm not staying put, either. If they targeted my father, they have their eyes on one or both of two things that are mine and mine alone – my title, or my house."

"And because of that, they may be trying to get something out of you that they couldn't from your father," Lucrezia said. "That's much more plausible than killing your family for no reason other than murderous intent. If they were someone Coriolanus trusted, then they likely are close to you, as well. If you run, you tip them off. But if you stay the course…if you try to find the beasts who killed your father, well…you have a chance to save your legacy, to bring your father's killers to justice, and to keep the peace."

Creon scoffed. "You make it sound easy. If they're someone close to me, they'll know exactly what you're up to, as well. Your identity isn't exactly a secret. As soon as whoever this killer – or killers – may be, they'll figure out I'm on to them the moment they see you sniffing around."

"I have my ways. I trade in information. I'm used to discretion."

"I'm not convinced."

"Then we find another source to sniff around our ranks," Lucrezia said. She smiled. "There is…someone among us, someone close to you, who is an unknown to anyone – even to us. Someone who could do the job without drawing a hint of suspicion."

"And who is that?"

"Someone in the spotlight yet still under the radar. I believe she'll be giving a speech in District 12 tomorrow morning."


	30. Ice

_**+ Again, big thanks to Dancing-Souls for the review, and to everyone reading along! Sorry for the long wait; writer's block hitting hard, especially on a talky chapter like this. I promise more action is coming soon (really!) **_

**/ / / / /**

_The train is cold_.

The train _was_ cold, and the night sky peering in through its frosted windows inky and starless. The polished chrome decorations and glittering chandeliers hanging in the lounge car were little comfort against the chill. Every mile the train sped away from District 5 sapped away the warmth of my sunny desert home, and the first spots of white on the ground shook me. It was an alien landscape, something I'd only seen from afar atop the peaks surrounding the Capitol: Snow.

I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and huddled against the side of a wide, plush couch, as if shrinking into the tiniest space possible would shield me from the Victory Tour's unfamiliarities. However, it wasn't just the darkness outside and the frozen winds blowing along the plains that frightened me, but the memories that I knew would creep up the closer we drew to District 12. A familiar face waited from the grave in Panem's easternmost district. Perhaps more than any other tribute in the Games, Ember from District 12 had _meant_ something to me. He'd cared when he had no reason to. He'd followed me when he should've never trusted my judgment. He'd died only because I'd fallen into a trap – and he wouldn't give up trying to find me again in that horrible arena.

I still remembered what he'd told me – and what might await me tomorrow. Pox, he'd said. It had taken his mother and both of his sisters, leaving only his father and him around. Would I have to look into his last family member's eyes as I gave some stupid, silly speech? _Thanks for your kid's death_, I imagined myself droning. _Sorry to leave you nothing to live for now that your family's dead. Had to do it, y'know. Nothing personal_.

A shiver ran up the back of my neck. How many pairs of empty eyes would stare back at me with gray vacancy tomorrow? How many more Embers still trudged on year after year in a place like District 12? I'd always known it was Panem's poorest district, but from Ember's accounts, I imagined I'd be fighting back emotions up on stage.

The lounge car door opened with a loud _bang!_ Finch crept in, grimacing as she shut the door so quietly I couldn't hear it click shut. "Sorry," she said, shaking her hair loose and plopping down on a couch across from me. "What are you still doing up?"

I shook my head and burrowed my face in the blanket. So much for being alone. I wasn't in the mood to talk, especially not with Finch. My mentor had her heart in the right place, but all her advice and reasoning wouldn't help push my thoughts away.

Finch leaned towards me. "Thinking about tomorrow."

"Yeah."

"It's just a speech, Terra. Won't be long."

"Mmm."

"Hey," said Finch, reaching out to touch me but holding back at the last second, leaving her hand hanging in the air. "You can tell me if something's wrong, okay? I'm supposed to be here for you. It's my job."

I pushed my face further into the blanket. "At least you're paid."

"That's not what I meant. I just…do you wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."

She didn't get the memo. "I wish…I dunno. I know about the memories, Terra. They hit all of us victors. I've got my own, even in District 12. I still remember the name of one of their tributes in my games. Pretty girl. Twelve years old. Primrose. I think her last name was Evergreen, or something."

"I don't know if she ever was much in the arena," Finch went on. I gave up trying to drown her out with blankets. "But I remember when I stumbled across her. I'd stayed out of sight the entire time, keeping tabs on the other kids and making sure they didn't see me. Stupidly, I thought I could go the entire Games without killing anyone. I knew better, but I just denied it. I could steal food from them, I could stay out of the way, but eventually, I'd have to get some blood on my hands."

"So Primrose ran into the cave I'd staked out. I dunno if she was running from something, but I remember blood running down her face. I couldn't have her leading people back to me. At the time it was a rational decision, just…just taking the rock that was my only protection and bashing her with it. It made sense. Ever since then, though, it hasn't. Maybe I could've hid her. Maybe I could've thought up something else if I hadn't panicked, but I did. These things don't go away, Terra, and you can't just 'get over' killing someone…but for what everyone else doesn't understand, all I can say is that we do. Daud, me, everyone who's survived the arena gets it. We've all done this stuff. So if you need help or need someone to listen, just ask. I want to help you. I do."

For a moment I wanted to give in. I wanted to tell her, yes, I do want someone to listen. I do want someone to empathize, to hear me out, to have my back when it felt like no one – not my family, not Daud, not anyone else I knew or thought I knew well – wanted to prop me up.

But I didn't. I only forced a smile and said, "I'm fine."

I hoped my fake smile was better than Finch's.

A sea of white blanketed the ground when I woke up the next morning. Skeletal trees shook with each clump of snow that fell from their dead branches. The hostile world told me to stay in the train, in the heat and under the lights that crowded out the depressed gray skies outside. I sleptwalk through the morning, feeling only apathy as my prep team worked me over. "Beautiful," they crowed, turning me around in front of a mirror and admiring their work. "Stunning. Elegant."

I felt like the trees and the sky.

"Eat," Finch sighed at the breakfast table as I picked over something yellow and goopy. "I have to go talk to the conductor. Elan, make her eat."

I grunted as Finch shoved open the door to the next car. "Is Daud ever coming out?"

My mentor paused. She grimaced, holding up a hand in hesitation as if weighing the costs of responding. "He's not coming," she said at last. "Not today."

"What? Why?"

Finch shut the door with a loud _slam!_ before I could get my answer.

"A story for the Capitol, perhaps," Elan said, spearing a sausage. "No time to get into all the details, either. We're no more than twenty minutes from District 12."

"Great," I muttered.

"It's certainly not a place worthy of enthusiasm," Elan admitted. "Panem's most tragic district. Only two winners in the ninety-six Hunger Games that have ever occurred, and the only one who still lives is a drunkard."

"Sounds fun."

"Oh, Haymitch Abernathy is the least of District 12's troubles," Elan said, setting down his sausage and propping himself up on both elbows. "The district has suffered through a…rather rash period of poor fortune of late. A pox infection two years ago wiped out a significant portion of its population – an infection that has proven tough to stamp out - and rumor in the Capitol has it that House Snow hasn't given any slack to the coal miners who call this place home. That's a poor combination for keeping the peace, if you get my drift."

I stared him in the eye. What was he saying? "You mean…"

"Oh, I'm not implying anything," Elan said. From the way he cocked his eyebrows in mock surprise, I figured he wasn't telling the truth. "But the only thing more rampant than pox around these parts is hardship. You remember your ally in the arena, Ember?"

"Yeah. He said –"

"He was not lying. Whatever you may think about District 5, you and your district folk have it well-off compared to District 12. Here, the majority are fortunate to have enough to eat every night. Electricity is a scarce commodity. Things you take for granted – your father's cantina, your intact family, even Daud's Church – are rare indeed in District 12. Anyone who flourishes here is a rare breed. But hardship can create survivors."

The way Elan spoke about District 12 as if he knew every in and out of the place struck me as odd. "How do you know all that?"

He was silent for a moment, paused, staring down at his lap as if I'd attacked him. "One day, perhaps when you and I are garnering sponsorships for some unlucky boy or girl in the future," he said. "I'll tell you how I become an escort, and just my job can entail. But not now. You have other things to worry about now."

I was about to open my mouth to press the issue when a thin metal fence whizzed past the window. Shacks – if I could even call them that – rose out of the hills in the distance, mere spots of brown and white against the backdrop of the dead forest that flanked District 12. Upon the frozen, corrugated metal door of one shack, someone had painted a bright red X.

"Another to the morgue," Elan mused. "If they had a morgue here, of course."

"How does the victor – Haymitch, or whatever – not got sick?"

Elan scoffed. "You think the Head Gamesmaker would allow a victor to fall ill? No, no, they take care to ensure he stays alive, even with his alcoholism. You don't need to worry about catching anything yourself. You, me, Finch, we're public figures, too valuable to lose to a virus. But the people here aren't so lucky. To them, those of us immune to the struggles of eking out survival may as well be a different species altogether. There is not the shred of allegiance to Panem here."

"So I shouldn't expect a warm welcome?"

"Mmm."

The train screeched to a halt in front of a run-down, wooden train station with a rusted aluminum-roofed platform. A motley crew waited in the icy conditions to greet us: A humble, middle-aged mayor with grey hairs infiltrating her blonde curls, a collection of Peacekeepers who looked as if they'd have rather been anywhere else, and a few Capitol cameramen, looking more concerned with keeping themselves warm than taping the event.

An icy blast smacked me as soon as I stepped off the train, and my thick fur overcoat wasn't enough to ward out the cold. It was so disorienting and alien that I stepped right into a strange puddle on the edge of the train station.

I looked down. Thick, congealing blood pooled in the snow around my boot.

"Let's try to avoid that," Finch said, steering me towards the waiting party. "Not really a great introduction to snow, huh?"

I was surprised the district even had a car to take us to the town's square for my speech – one I was in no hurry to give as our party drove down the snow-covered dirt roads of District 12. District folk clad in ragged winter gear stared as we passed. Some stared with empty faces blackened by work in the coal mines, the only thing – other than Ember – that I knew this place for. Others stared with contempt.

"I guess you were right," I muttered to Elan, leaning against the car window as he pressed a piece of paper into my hand, my speech written on it in neat computerized writing. "It looks terrible here."

"It's an everyday horror," he said. "But you're more likely to face real hostility in other districts, especially ones such as Districts 2 and 4."

"What? Why?"

Elan paused as the car passed by a family trudging down the road. The father, a short, thin man with slumped shoulders and wild facial hair, only looked down at the ground as he trudged through the snowdrifts. The mother, however, pulled her two gangly children into her ripped jacket and narrowed her eyes at the car.

"I told you before your Games to build a brand," he said, watching the family as we drove past them. "To stand out. I originally told you to outthink your competitors, but once you got in the arena, you gave me a perfect opportunity to re-write your story. I could sell you to sponsors in a much more enticing way, a way to get you real gifts – such as the dagger you received that ultimately ended Acheron McRath's life."

Something about the low, hollow way he said that sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn't the cold that was responsible. "What did you tell them?"

"The details are long and dull," he said. "But each Hunger Games is its own story. Not every protagonist is a hero, or even a good person. Every hero has to have a nemesis. Once you struck down the boy from District 7, I had an idea on who you could become. It only grew stronger when you put Glenn out of his misery. To you, it was mercy. I understood that…but that wasn't a good storyline."

"The likes of District 1 likely will see you how I sold you to Cicero Templesmith and every sponsor I came across during the late stages of the Games – and how the television coverage subsequently portrayed you," Elan said. "You did me a favor with your willingness to do anything to survive, Terra. I made you the 96th Hunger Games's villain."


	31. Faces in the Sea

_**+ Thanks to Dancing-Souls, Theotherpianist, Moka-girl, and happyreader for the recent reviews! On to the next chapter, where we'll get to see some familiar faces again. Longer chapter than I anticipated…**_

**/ / / / /**

District to district the train ran on, foreign land to alien shore, plains to forests to urban squalor. Every speech in front of thousands of strange faces felt forced. Elan's fancy words flowed easily from my lips, but I felt no connection to the people who watched me praise their homes and their children. The hollowness from District 12 didn't stick around long, however. Something funny replaced it, something I hadn't expected before starting the tour. I wasn't remorseful. I was _bored_.

The haze of half-hearted pomp and circumstance in every district's stop on the tour didn't help. I'd expected to meet other victors and learn about what awaited me, maybe even forming a friendship or two that I craved in my loneliest hours on the train. Instead, I shook hands with mayors who couldn't care less about a fifteen year-old girl far from home and charmed vapid Peacekeeper captains in various states of inebriation. From District 12 to District 6, I met only two victors – the kind-but-preoccupied Cecelia Sanchez of District 8, who left halfway through our dinner to attend to her grandchildren, and Johanna Mason of District 7, perhaps the only interesting person I'd run into since I'd left the Capitol months ago. District 7's mayor might have been offended when Johanna introduced herself by referring to me as a "squirt," but at least it was novel. Even rudeness was more interesting than the tour's grind.

When the green hills of District 4 lit up with the rising sun, mixed feelings flooded my emotional void. Both Delfin and Tethys from Panem's westernmost District had helped me in the arena. I wouldn't have been alive without them…but even then I couldn't muster up enough guilt to care anymore. How many times had Delfin treated me like an unwanted hanger-on as we ran from the horrors of the arena? I'd been prepared to kill him in those final days. I'm still sure I could have.

But District 4 brought something new: I couldn't find any of those empty, hollow eyes like I'd seen in so many faces across the other, poorer districts. Elan had mentioned District 4's relative wealth compared to the likes of Districts 11, 8, or 12 on the train, but this was a place where people still _lived_. As the train churned into a metal-roofed station adorned with driftwood decorations across its façade, I spotted hundreds of people bustling about the wooden docks that watched over the great blue bay at the heart of this district. New huts of lime and mortar cropped up around burned-down buildings around the harbor, eager to crowd out old blight. When I gave my same, tired old speech on a redwood platform before a great, six-story stucco manor overlooking the city's square, so many faces – _so many_ – stared me down with heated eyes.

I stumbled through the words. Did they hate me for Delfin and Tethys's deaths, for something else, or was I just so tired of this grind that I was misinterpreting their response to yet another weary speech?

Whatever it was, I was glad when it was over. Standing in front of all those eyes was wearing me down – almost as much as all the feasts and private dinners that every district put on when the sun dipped below the horizon.

"Stop fidgeting for a sec," Finch said as we stood alone in one of the manor's back rooms. Old mariners watched me with amused eyes from their oil paintings on the walls as my mentor pulled on one of my dress's shoulder straps. "Terra, c'mon. Can we just get this part over with?"

"It looks stupid," I muttered. The dress _did_ look stupid. I hated my stylist's offbeat sense of fashion: Rhea had swathed me in some shiny, reflective green thing that dangled from my hips in long, limp ribbons. I looked like a plant.

Finch sighed. "No one's gonna make fun of your dress. I guarantee you everyone here tonight just wants to get this over with, just like everywhere else we've been. Besides, no one's even going to think back on some dinner a week from now."

"I still have to see the victors every year."

"The only person who's gonna be here is Finnick, probably. Will you just stop moving for a second?"

I sighed as loud as I could out of annoyance. "He'll probably remember it at least. Caesar and Cicero every year make it sound like he gets with everyone with a –"

"Terra, knock it off. Finnick's a good guy, and he's forty-six. You're fifteen. Get to know him first before you say anything."

_Harrumph_. "Yeah, fine, mom. Whatever."

She grabbed my arm. "I'm serious. You can get snippy back on the train. You're gonna have to fake a smile a lot more now, so you better get used to it. Come on."

I was done debating a wall. With the fakest smile I could muster plastered upon my face, I followed Finch out of the room and into a bright, spacious hall. Redwood walls stretched twenty feet from floor to ceiling, adorned with old pastel portraits, driftwood ornaments, and shells so colorful and large they looked unreal. A pair of polished granite tables stretched at least thirty feet down the hall's length. Upon them sat dozens of jade and wooden platters holding exotic foods I'd never seen: Blue-scaled fish the size of my chest gaped wide with jelly eyes. Bejeweled shells as large as my hand overflowed with salty-smelling goo. Even giant, armored orange bugs with claws that looked strong enough to crunch a man's finger sizzled upon the tables, waiting to be dug into. The array of food both amazed and intimidated me.

The new faces had a habit of doing that, as well. An old, wizened mayor and a few local dignitaries later, I was already scrambling to find a friendly face. Evading a pair of dock managers discussing something about boats, I ran straight into Daud.

My mentor seemingly had worked through a half a bottle of wine by the time I found him. "How d'you like being a victor?" he laughed, shoving the bottle back in his mouth and taking a long swig. "Surprised Finch didn't glue you to her."

I rolled my eyes. "She said enough already. Are you just gonna drink?"

"She's getting to you. I can't wait for in a few years when you're telling me how to live my life."

"I'm just saying."

"Yeah. Of course. If you spent less time talking to these bores and more time eating, you'd be enjoying yourself," said Daud. He jerked his head towards a plate loaded with slimy, grey ribbons. "What were you saying about jellied eels?"

"Are you ever going to actually do anything on the Tour? I mean, you haven't even come out until today."

Daud paused, the bottle halfway to his lips. "Been too cold to come out and play. Even District 10 got snow."

"So? It's been kinda neat. We don't have snow at home –"

"Easy for you to say it's neat."

"What?"

"When you're tromping around in the ice and snow without anything but the damn shirt on your back - bah, forget it. Go play with Finch or these other people."

I stopped. "What?"

"Forget it!"

Daud glared at the wall and shoved his bottle back in his face. I was confused. Every time we talked, he let up for just long enough to start to say something before cutting me off with a snarl and a vicious look. He was hiding something, I knew it – but I also knew probing to satisfy my curiosity would only drive him further off.

"Y'know," a warm voice behind me interrupted my thoughts. "Sometimes it's good to leave other victors alone for a while."

"Pound sand, whore," Daud grunted.

I spun as a hand grabbed my shoulder. Behind me stood a man I'd seen – _everyone_ had seen – a hundred times on television before. He had a famous face and an even more famous reputation – one that wasn't far from Daud's insult. Everyone knew who Finnick Odair was, and every inch of him looked the part up close. His bronze hair hid a strand or two of gray and shallow lines creased his forehead and chin, but besides that, District 4's most famous victor's stony jaw and watery green eyes still seemed cut straight from the replays of the 65th Hunger Games.

His wide grin only made it clearer why the Capitol ladies fought to sleep with him every year. "I'm not interested in pounding sand. I think I'll entertain our guest for a while instead. Mind?"

Daud spat in response. "Let's go somewhere quieter, Terra," Finnick said, grabbing me by the hand and leading me into an adjacent hallway before I could protest.

It _was_ quieter here. Driftwood sculptures lining the walls had a way of sucking in the sound and muffling every one of Finnick's footsteps. Ceiling lights shined a dim, milky hue down onto the redwood floorboards, and soft moonlight drifted in through glass windows just large enough to give a clear view of District 4's bay. Out there, lanterns on the piers and the boats shined against the black water of the sea. Glowing green dots flitted about just beneath the surface as straggling gulls drifted overhead in the full moon's glow, searching for a late night meal in the cool, salty air.

"Daud's not much of a conversationalist," Finnick said as he led me away from the feast. "I try to meet everyone in our little circle of victors, but he's rebuffed my overtures every time. I gave up trying with him a while ago. Sorry to drag you away, but I can see when someone's not having a good time."

I hid a little smile. Even in middle age, Finnick was handsome in the moonlight. He wasn't covered in red dust like every man back in District 5, nor glazed in makeup like those who called the Capitol home; he'd found a happy medium that laughed at age's advance. "I'm, um…yeah. It's kinda getting old. The feasts and stuff."

He chuckled. "Yeah, that happens."

"Doesn't seem like you get tired of it," I said.

Finnick raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, I mean – you're always looking good and having fun at this kind of thing," I muttered with a little more bitterness than I intended. Something about the way he brushed aside my complaint bothered me. If any victor enjoyed the life in the spotlight, I figured it would be him. I didn't know if I was irritated because I was wrong…or because Finnick's answer silently confirmed what Daud had told me about living as a victor. _Disappointment awaits._

"And the television tells you this?" said Finnick with a shrug.

"Yeah."

He laughed. "The way Cicero and Caesar spun things on television during last year's Games broadcast, you're a ruthless manipulator with a penchant for trickery, especially when it leads to dead tributes. Snakes, pits, underground death traps…is that right too?"

"What? No! I didn't – "

"The television also tell you everyone in District 4's eager to play in the arena? That we're all killers?"

"No, but – "

"Mostly volunteers from here. Just like 1 and 2, huh?"

"That's different."

"Is it? Come walk with me. The feast-goers aren't going to miss us for a while."

As I followed him down a dim hallway, he fiddled in his pocket and pulled out something white and glittery. "Want a sugar cube, by the way?"

"I'm good."

He looked down at the cube between his fingers, squinted, and popped it in his mouth. "Weird habit, I guess."

A series of dark hallways led to a grand, ancient-looking room so out of place with the bustling activity that marked District 4. In here, time seemed to stop. Dust danced in the moonlight that shined through ten foot tall windows, and weathered wooden tables held curiosities that I'd never even imagined before, from glossy white spheres the size of my fist to tiny models of sailing ships, complete with intricate woven riggings.

Finnick led me over to a much simpler artifact at the center of the room, held over an old driftwood mounting by a prop carved from cragged, black volcanic rock. It was a giant, conical seashell larger than my head – but apart from the size, it was unremarkable in every other way. The shell had lost its sheen untold years ago, leaving only a milky finish on top of the intricate spirals and lines on its crusty surface.

"It's a conch shell," said Finnick, noticing my look. "Everything in here's a tribute to who we are as a people in District 4, but this is the most important thing in this room. It doesn't look like much now, but the man who founded what would become District 4 hundreds of years ago once carried that on the open seas. The Horn of the Deep, it's called. You blow into the hole in the tail and it creates a noise that can carry for miles over the ocean. At least, that's what the stories say."

"Now…well, I see the Hunger Games broadcasts every year," Finnick sighed. His shoulders slumped as he looked down at the conch. "The talking heads just glaze over our chances at winning this stupid thing. Heck, I mentored Tethys and Delfin. Cicero would have talked about them just like he does me. We're a proud people here, Terra, but you wouldn't know it from watching the vids. That's what I'm getting at. Maybe we're not just eager volunteers for the Hunger Games here. Maybe you're not a ruthless killer, and maybe I'm not…well, you know. Maybe the only time I'm having a good time is when I leave the Capitol, not when I go to it."

That hurt. I knew I'd been too quick to spout off on my feelings, but Finnick drove the point home. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to be mean."

"You don't have to apologize," Finnick said with a hint of a smile returning to his face. "I'm not usually very forward with most people I just meet. But I know what's waiting for _you_. I was a victor for thirty years under the last president. _Thirty_ years. Now he dies and you're the first victor since. Things are changing in the Capitol, and I know they're going to have a plan for you. They did for me, and that was when things were stable."

"A plan?"

"Every victor has a role," he said with a grimace. "Some less dignified than others. Just be careful what you listen to, Terra. Sometimes the television isn't always telling the truth."

"So who should I listen to?"

"That's up for you to decide. I can't tell you who to trust, as much as I might want to."

We were quiet for a minute, and I stared off into the shadows in the corner of the great room. There was a sincerity in Finnick's voice and a mournfulness, especially when he said _rol_e_. _He knew more than he was letting on. Here was the Hunger Games's most famous victor, and he sounded like an old man looking back at life with regret.

I sniffed. "What's that?" I said to break the silence, pointing up at the wall.

Finnick looked up and grinned, some of the vigor leaping back up in his face. Above the mantle behind the conch shell loomed a giant fossilized skull, lean and dangerous with jaws longer than I was tall. Dual rows of razor teeth lined their insides, the smallest as large as my thumb, the largest the size of the knife I'd carried in the arena.

"Something that I really hope doesn't lurk out in the ocean anymore," said Finnick. "I don't want to meet a living one, whatever it is. As tough as we might think we are here, Terra, there's tougher things out in the ocean. No stone can stop the sea."

"What?"

"It's –"

Footsteps echoed in the hall. "Tell you later," Finnick said. "Hello?"

I could have confused the boy who stepped through the doorway as Finnick, only thirty years younger. He had the same bronze hair, thick jaw, and high cheekbones, with maybe an inch or two in height over the famous victor. He would've stood out in the crowd back home, from his clothes – bright blue and made from something shiny that must have cost a lot – to the way his shoulder muscles bulged out from the fabric. My heart stuttered. _Oh my_.

"Oh, you," Finnick scoffed. "Surprised you're not drunk."

"What're you –" The boy started, but he paused when he saw me. "Is this the new girl?"

"Oh, boy," Finnick said. "Terra, this is my son, Drake. Drake, this is Terra Pike from District 5. We were having a chat away from all the fun."

"Hey," he said. I froze, torn between a wave, a smile, and saying something stupid. Drake didn't give me the chance to decide. "I'm 'bout to go home, Dad."

"You could at least talk to our guest."

"Yeah, I could. You mind?"

He ducked out of the doorway before I could get a word in. Finnick sighed, "That's my son. You'll be seeing him plenty, considering he won the Games the year before you. Sorry in advance."

**/ / / / /**

Moonlight shimmed on the black water of District 4's bay. Far in the distance, lights glowed from the feast for the new victor.

Terra Pike. Brooke Larson was surprised she remembered her name. Average girl. Half-assed her way through the arena. _Good distraction tonight_.

A wave splashed against the side of the longboat, sending it rocking back and forth beneath her feet. A gull cried out overhead as it circled, looking for an evening snack. Out here on the water, everything seemed much simpler to Brooke. There were no Peacekeepers or trawlers at this hour, no noise, no fishing. Nothing but the sea, the sky, this boat…and the six men in the boat with her.

One wasn't much more than a boy. "We've been out here for two hours," he complained, little more than a shadow in the darkness. "We ever going?"

Brooke hushed him. She'd waited six months for this. Six months, that was how long it had been since the riot. Six months since the Peacekeepers had rounded up Rio West, dragged him into their ad hoc jail, and kept under watch. They'd kept close guard over their prisoner for that long, but now they needed their men for security for the feast. _Couldn't let poor Terra Pike get hurt_. Or Finnick Odair.

She sniggered. _Finnick Odair_. Pathetic shell of a man.

"Wade," Brooke said, rousing the boy. "Start rowing. The rest of you, start rowing. We're going."

Oars dipped into the black water with a chorus of splashes. "Are you sure Rio's still even there?" Wade asked as the longboat cut through the surf. "I mean, it's been a while."

"He's still there," said Brooke without a pause.

"You sure?"

"I'm a victor. They let me into whatever I want. I'm sure."

"That's great and all – "

"Wade, are you even rowing?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just wondering how we're going to keep this under wraps."

She scoffed. "_We_?"

"Hey, you asked me to do this. There's seven of us here. That's we."

"Don't get too cocky, Fowler. You don't see the other guys talking. But I've got a place in Manheim's Gulch. Rio can stay in cover for however long he needs. No need to rush like six months ago."

"Yeah – "

"Just row, dammit. You're bugging me."

_Shink_. Brooke pulled one of her daggers from her pocket. She'd had these carved from whale bones in secret, white, sharp, and capable of cutting through the mesh weak points in a Peacekeeper's armor with ease. She hoped it wouldn't come to that. To keep the prisoners rounded up during the riot, District 4's garrison had erected an ad hoc jail six months ago off the premises of the Presidio, the Peacekeeper fortress atop a limestone cliff overlooking the bay. It wasn't much more than a few wooden shacks: According to the data she'd uncovered, the local commander had run into bureaucratic trouble transferring Rio West and the other prisoners to the Capitol's prison in all that time. It was a stroke of good luck – and with a little more luck, she and others would be in and out with Rio without even alerting the night guard tonight.

They'd find out in the morning, of course – but it'd be too late by then for them to do anything. District 4 was a big place with a lot of hiding spots. A smart man could evade capture for years.

_Splash. Splash_. The light from the feast retreated in the distance and the light from the Presidio glowed ahead. Brooke could smell death from the trawler docks to her left, adjacent to the canneries and packing plants that belched smoke during the day. One of the big ships had hauled a humpback in from the open ocean, and the mammoth carcass stank. Something about it troubled her. Fish, sharks, shellfish, those were creatures Brooke didn't mind harvesting for the good of the district. Whales were a different story: There was something majestic about them, something honorable, an ancient nobility that evaded this place and belonged only to the sea. They didn't deserve to hang dead on hooks off the side of a trawler through the winter night, no matter how much oil and meat they provided. Brooke's daggers felt a little heavier on her belt.

She shook her head. Stupid time to think about such things.

"Couple minutes," one of the men behind her said. "Then we're ashore."

The limestone cliffs of the Presidio loomed like a white wall. Sucking in her gut, Brooke stood up in the longboat and faced her comrades. "Six months ago they cut down our people. They put bullets in the hearts of our brothers and sisters – _our_ people. Now our brightest leader rots in their jail and they laugh at us. They laugh at _you!_ We can't let their crimes go unpunished. The Peacekeepers did this. The _Capitol_ did this. We'll take Rio West back tonight, and they can't stop us. No stone can stop the sea!"

"Nor the storm," the man chanted in unison.

"Nor the storm!"

_Thunk!_ The longboat's keel ran aground against the sand of the beach, and in an instant Brooke charged over the side, her two daggers in her hand. The others with her wouldn't understand the rush she felt as they crept through the darkness, slinking up the grassy hill towards the Presidio's outer wall. She knew this feeling. She'd felt it years ago when she'd plunged her knives through the hearts of the others in the arena – District 1, District 2, it hadn't mattered once her district partner had fallen. They weren't here people. They were the enemy. Brooke had carved a path of blood through the Hunger Games, and that same ruthlessness filled her veins with fire tonight.

A few of the men wheezed behind her as they climbed the steep hill towards the Presidio. She hushed them sharply and squinted ahead. There – beside the outer wall stood a collection of wooden huts, clearly temporary in design but forced into permanence by circumstance. A pair of men stood outside with rifles. _No serious threat _– neither of them had even bothered to don armor. Terra Pike really had been a fortunate diversion.

She would handle this herself.

"You all," Brooke said, rounding on her compatriots. "Two of you stay by the boat. The rest of you fan out around those huts in an arc towards the shore. Keep an eye out for any reinforcements coming – and if they do, give me a sharp whistle. Two blasts. Okay?"

"You're going in there alone?" Wade asked.

She snapped, "Yes, you idiot. Stay out here."

"Let one of us – "

"No! I'm the one who's fought like this. Let me handle it. Don't make this more complicated. Too many moving pieces and we up our chances of screwing it up. Kay?"

Wade slumped. "Yeah. Cool."

He had promise, but not tonight. Brooke had bigger plans for the boy, but he'd just complicate tonight's extraction. Silently, she rushed ahead through the long grass, sneaking to the outside of the huts through the darkness, where the spotlights lining the outer wall of the Presidio wouldn't catch her. It all came back to her now. _The long grass of the savannah, the howling cat mutts in the distance, the two from District 1 so close, just close enough to stab, yet they saw nothing, nothing, closer now…_

It felt good to do this again.

Closer. Closer. She was twenty meters away when one of the guards stirred, holding out a flashlight and walking out into the darkness. It was all too easy for Brooke to pitch a rock through the long grass and head the opposite direction, letting the guard check out the disturbance as she crept up to the wooden door at the back of the second hut. Good authority had told her it was this one that housed Rio.

She opened the door without as much as a creak. It reeked inside of urine and sweat, of blood and decay. Brooke squinted through the dark, peering through the iron-barred doors of hastily put-together cells before she spotted a familiar form lying on his side atop a stone slab. He was slimmer, with the meat hanging off of the bones of his arms, and his hair had greyed and thinned considerably since she'd seen him six months ago – but she knew Rio West when she saw him.

The door was another matter. The cells were locked, and she had only way of getting them open.

"_Wheet!_" Brooke whistled, huddling back into a dark corner.

Right on cue, the door burst open, the two Peacekeepers looking angry at the disturbance. "The hell you all doing?" the leaner of the two barked. He reeked of alcohol. Six months of peace had left the Peacekeepers expecting nothing on a night like this.

_Closer…closer now…_Brooke waited for the two to walk further. In a flash, she leapt out of the darkness and jabbed her dagger into the lean man's throat. He gurgled, lurched, and stumbled back into the wall, clutching his neck as blood bubbled from his veins. The other guard reached for his gun, but Brooke was faster. She hadn't let her Games experience go to waste: In a flash, she swatted aside his arm, pulled his gun from his holster, and knocked him to the floor.

"The hell!" the man said, scrambling backwards into a wall, trapped with nowhere to go.

Brooke laughed, enjoying the moment. The prisoners were awake, but all she focused on was this man – this one man, this man she intended to kill. It all came back in a moment's flash: _The boy dying, his chest a geyser of blood, the girl's abdomen slit, her hand clutching her stomach to keep it all in, scrambling away from her attacker. "Why?" she pleaded. "Why?" Brooke laughed._

"I'm having a real good night," Brooke laughed.

She leapt at the Peacekeeper. _Splurch!_ A geyser of blood erupted from his neck.

Brooke groped around in the darkness for keys, finding them on the first man she'd killed and ripping them from his belt. Whispers and echoes sounded from the other cells, but Brooke only concentrated on the man curled up in the corner of one.

"What are you doing?" Rio demanded, finally figuring out what had happened – _who_ had happened. "You idiot! If they find out – "

"They'll find out, alright," Brooke said with a smile, cracking up the door and offering a hand. "I want them to. But right now I need you. _We_ need you. Come on."


	32. Lawbringer

_**+ Thanks to Dancing-Souls for another great review! Coming to an end on the Victory Tour, we're back in the Capitol. Time for Terra to meet everyone finally. Also, these chapters are starting to get really long...  
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**/ / / / /**

A veil of white draped the Capitol on my first return to the great shining city. Frost glazed the train's windows, but I could still make out the gleaming silver forest of towers stretching high above the maze of winding streets and avenues below. Snow capped the mountains flanking the city, hiding every inch of rock and grass beneath a frozen blanket. The rising sun bathed the city's frozen lake in red and orange light. Here and there hovercraft flew about, giant, bird-like ones meant for great hosts and smaller ones like silver gnats, flitting between skyscrapers with the fluid grace of tiny fish.

The beauty evaporated the closer the train got. It wasn't the scene that upset me, however, but the signs.

_She will strike_, read a large, black-framed banner draped across the side of a boxy gray high-rise littered with icicles as large as me. The acid-green words leered at me from above the picture of a girl I didn't know. Her bare skin was tan and strong, barely concealing thin, rippling muscle sinew beneath. Her brown ponytail curled around her neck and her bony shoulders, falling down just above the black dagger she clutched in her right hand. Her face was ice and contempt. To top it all off, a pair of green-yellow serpents slithered between her legs, coiling around her ankles and hissing with long tongues out at anyone who dared to look.

A red _5_ was burned into her hand.

"You did a fine job listening to my advice," Elan mused as I watched in horror from the breakfast table. "Even Drake Odair will have a hard time competing with your brand. They painted him as a hero, the son of a champion reclaiming his family's reputation. I can't imagine a more perfect foil. The girl of snakes. The lady of the night. Whatever they end up calling you, you made an impression, Terra."

"It's horrible," I murmured, still in shock as I watched the banner – as I watched _me_ – drift by as we approached the Capitol.

Elan cast a sideways look towards Daud, who was in the process of drizzling an avalanche of jelly on top of a pastry. "No worse than some."

"They think I'm a killer."

"You are a killer," said Daud.

I glared at him, sighed, and said, "How did they even get that picture of me? I never posed."

"It's not hard," Elan said. "They have plenty of you on camera. A little editing and you're nude with snakes and a dagger."

"That's disgusting."

"No different than much of what goes on this city."

"Filled with whores," Daud muttered.

I frowned. "Are you even coming this time, Daud?"

He glanced out the window, eyed the mountains, scowled, and said, "No."

"Why are you – "

Before I could get any further, a quick shake of the head from Elan cut me off. Just another secret. I plowed through breakfast and headed back to the rooming cars to let Rhea and my stylist team work me over before we arrived, but Elan caught me by the shoulder before I could make it far.

"Before you go," he said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure we were alone before going on. "You'll want to know one thing about tonight."

I frowned. "You're not coming, either?"

"Oh, I am. But I'll be running many an errand here and there at the same time. Being an escort means a busy life in times like these. You probably won't see much of me until we leave the Capitol."

Elan adjusted the high collar on his shiny red shirt, pulled on a long strand of hair that ran down from his ear to his neckline, and said, "You'll be with Cicero Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman most of the afternoon, but tonight's the real important part. You'll have a feast in your honor, much like the ones we've endured in every district up until now."

"Then why's it so important?"

My escort paused, letting each second tick away at my curiosity. I hated this. Flint had used the same trick on me for years: Every moment that passed by in weighted silence made me more eager to get at what would come next. It didn't take much for eagerness to give way to anxiety.

"Elan?" I pressed.

He smiled, a small, subtle grin that began and ended at the corners of his mouth. "There are many things that aren't meant to be heard in the Capitol, Terra – but they're impossible not to hear if you listen to the right people at the right times. Creon Snow, the president, will take you aside sometime tonight. He'll have a job for you."

I swallowed hard. "A job?"

"Victors are unique. They command the spotlight and there's relatively few of them still young and…whole, let's say. Rarity breeds scarcity, and scarcity breeds value. There are victors who engage in unsavory tasks in service to the Capitol, but that was under the old regime. Creon Snow is a practical man, and I think he'll want to keep you close. Whatever you're told tonight, Terra, you'd do best to remember all of it. What the higher-ups in the Capitol say isn't always what they mean, and for people like me and you, a good ear trumps a strong voice. I understand you well enough to know no one will ever answer all your questions. Sometimes it's best to put them aside for a night."

I didn't like the slow, soft way he told me these things. Something about the way he emphasized _job_, the ominous feel behind it, sent shivers up my spine. "I still don't get how you know all this. You're an escort."

"Exactly," he said. "What are the odds?"

One thing was sure that night: The Capitol's feast put District 4's to shame. Following an afternoon of questions and faked smiles for the camera with a scarlet-haired Cicero Templesmith, the Presidential Mansion felt almost like a welcome relief from the bright, probing eyes of the cameras. Twinkling yellow lights from the city towers behind me watched as I followed Finch up the hedge-lined walk to the great manor. Red and gold neon lights strewn throughout the foliage glimmered off of my shiny blue dress. Up ahead, the Mansion reached up in a glow of blue and violet lights, a midnight sun eager to outcompete the full moon's radiance. Everything felt bright and new, and I pulled in irritation at the sparkling silver streamers that Rhea had laced in my hair.

"Terra, what'd I say about leaving your clothes alone?" Finch said. She'd outdone her typically humble sense of style herself: My mentor had donned a bright red dress that drifted on the walk behind her like a trail of flame. Her hair's curls lapping at her shoulders only made her look fiercer.

I certainly wasn't looking to spark an argument. "I know."

"If you know, then stop messing with it."

"I _am_."

The night was off to a great start as I sighed and followed Finch up the walk, clutching my arms tight enough to leave marks in my skin. Even with the spindly metal space heaters lining the hedges, the air was still frigid. _Would've been a lot easier if someone could've just driven me to the door of this place…_

It wasn't long before the cameras began to flash again. With a smile plastered across my face, I waltzed through the great bronze doors to the manor, Finch leading the way through a throng of partygoers dressed in all sorts of outlandish outfits. Reds, greens, blues, violets, every color of the rainbow whirled around me as I stepped into a great hall, easily as large as the town center back home. Off in the distance by the far wall, an ensemble of musicians clad in ankle-length scarlet robes played and sang a low, slow tune. Violet wisps of fog curled around the yellow and red ceiling lights, mounted around a skylight easily thirty feet above the floor. On every side of the great room, chrome tables groaned under the weight of gold dishes tempting my taste buds with all manner of foods. Armored crimson bugs with monstrous claws hissed and steamed beside fluffy brown buns. Moist orange globes threatened to tumble out of serving bowls and into goblets of hot stews. The smells of sautéed fish, boiled vegetables, and foods I couldn't even imagined swirled together with the sounds of laughter and chatter.

I wondered how much all this all cost. An arm and a leg? All four limbs? A torso?

It wasn't the lights and smells, however, that demanded my attention. No sooner had I escaped from Finch and begun loading slices of sizzling red meat onto a silver platter than a bony hand grabbed my arm and turned me about.

"There she is," said a thin man with a crown of tattoos atop his barren head. "Our guest of honor."

I had an urge to run the other way. The man was dressed to catch the crowd's eyes – and not in a good way. He wore a flowing lime green suit that stretched down to mid-thigh, contrasting horribly with the black, inky body art that snaked down his neck and reached out over the tops of his hands. His cheekbones poked a little too obtrusively out from his face, and his small, dark eyes made anxiety rise up in my gut before I even started to speak.

"Do I know you?" I said, nearly tripping over the words.

The man next to him, a powerful, broad-shouldered brute in a black suit, scoffed. "Of course you do. In a certain fashion."

"I guess I'm responsible for you being here," the thin man laughed. "Galan Greene. Head Gamesmaker."

"Otho Tercio," said the other. "But I'm only here for the week. Commander of the District 1 garrison."

Already I didn't like either of them. Maybe it was the way this Gamesmaker – this Galan Greene – introduced himself as if _he'd_ won the Games for me, or maybe it was the haughty way Otho carried himself, as if everyone in the room knew his name. I didn't think either one connected Terra the girl from District 5 with Terra the victor.

"You're making something of a name for yourself already," Galan said, stirring his fork through a plate of something red and mushy. "The way I hear it, we'll be seeing a lot more of you."

Otho cast a nasty look at him. "So I hear. No need to spoil it now. I hear you carried yourself well in my district, Ms. Pike."

I feigned interest. "It's uh…lovely, your district."

"Oh, not a native," he said. "Capitol born and bred. Of course, it's nice to escape this lot for most of the year."

He cast another sideways glance at Galan Greene, the derision obvious in his scowl. "I'm almost amazed your Games went as well as they did."

"They went _well_?" I asked. "I'm sorry, I just saw some of the banners this morning, and…"

Galan laughed, a high-pitched, airy bark of a thing. "You're _worried_ about your look? That's just what we could have _hoped_ for on the heels of a prissy brat like Drake Odair. Those white knights are so boring. Someone like you with a little mystery and a dark side, well, that's a lot more fun."

"There's a little more than 'fun' in it," Otho said, gritting his teeth.

"Of course. _Of course. _No party's a real party if there's any fun involved. Wouldn't want that, would we?"

It wasn't Galan who mocked Otho but a newcomer, a long, skinny man who sidled up to me and eyed the table. He looked entirely out of place here with his ragged bush of brown hair, adorned in a loose golden robe that bunched up on the floor behind him. "Ah! My favorite person here!" he exclaimed, looking past me at the table. "The champagne! What would I do without you?"

Galan made a noise like a dog vomiting. The newcomer held out a beer mug that would have fit in at my father's cantina and poured champagne into it, careful to fill it up all the way to the brim. "Musn't waste it. This probably took a year to cultivate in District 8. Or is it District 6? Wherever they make champagne."

"It didn't take you long to get drunk," Otho hissed. "Your father –"

"-isn't here," the man finished, taking a long swig. "Not a subject for pleasant conversation, hm? Death, dying. Oh, who am I kidding, the victor of the Hunger Games is here. Maybe we should talk about it."

Galan hurried off into the crowd. Otho moved to follow him, but not before turning back to me and saying, "Careful how much time you spend with him."

The drunken man rolled his eyes as he left. "What a pleasant man. The day he clears the stick out of his ass will be the day the sky falls and the seas boil over."

"I'm trying not to take sides tonight," I said.

"Bad idea here. I don't think neutrality's a thing," the man said. "Oh, where are my manners? Introductions! I'm the man who made sure your toilets didn't overflow in the Training Center last year."

I couldn't help but laugh. "You think it's funny?" he said, filling up his mug again. "It's a prestigious role! So they say. Capitol Administrator, manager of infrastructure, whatever my official title is. The pipes are clean and the roads are clear. It'd be a lot easier if my name wasn't Julian Tercio. Ugly men like my uncle, who you just met, place all sorts of egregious responsibilities on me because of my last name. They even think I shouldn't drink so much. The horror!"

"Maybe you shouldn't?" I suggested as he tilted back his mug again.

"Preposterous," he said. "How else would I make it through these things? I know you don't think it's fun. I don't either, and I have to _host_ these kinds of things."

I couldn't argue with that. I reached for an empty crystal goblet on the table and filled it to the brim with champagne. The drink was fizzy and sharp, but something about it made me want to drink more.

"Faith restored," Julian said. He glanced over my shoulder and laughed. "And just in time, too. Here comes the conquering hero of the party! Cyrus Locke, the man of no smiles. Only I don't think he's conquered anything, and I don't think he's a hero, either."

An older man in a simple blue jacket walked up behind me. He hadn't shaven that morning it seemed as gray stubble crept up from his chin and jawline. His hair thinned in spots, but his simple style was a refreshing breath of air among the bright colors and overwhelming perfumes of the crowd around me.

"I'm happy not to be one," the man, Cyrus, said as he walked up. "The way I hear it, in every story, the heroes end up dead."

"Don't we all," Julian said to his mug. "Here to take our guest away from this _fantastic_ feast?"

"Afraid I am. Duty calls."

"Duty. Because we love our little roundtables."

Cyrus smiled. "I hope you don't mind if I pull you away, Terra. I need a few minutes of your time. The party will still be here when you get back."

It sounded like I didn't have much of a choice, but this man, Cyrus, wasn't pushy. He guided me away from the crowds, the music, and the food, back into a hallway lined with oil portraits and gold sculptures. "Don't mind Julian," he said as we walked up a marble staircase, a crystal chandelier with a thousand pearly lights shining down on it from above. "He's a conflicted man. I think he wants nothing more than to waste away his life with drinks and songs, but he inherited one of the largest fortunes in the Capitol. There are strings that come with that."

"I guess it's hard to be that unlucky," I said. I immediately regretted it. _Stupid_. Elan had told me to listen, not to talk, and I was instead spouting off whatever came to mind. Maybe it was the champagne: I'd had my share of hard drinks from an early age in my father's cantina, but this new stuff hit hard.

"More than you might think," Cyrus said. "Although I know how it must seem."

"How?"

He paused, holding up at the last step and glancing over at me. "A longer story than we have time for now. Come on."

I stopped myself before I asked where we were going. Elan had told me enough on the train, and I trusted his secrets. The president wanted to see me, and from the way this Cyrus carried himself, I had no doubt that Creon Snow waited.

"Forgive me for the short timing on this," Cyrus said as we walked down another hallway, this one flanked by red walls and polished stone totems sitting atop marble platforms. "I've got another two places to be before the night's over, and the president's keen to see you. I'll have to run as soon as we reach him. I'd much rather stay and talk, but now's not the time."

"I'm just doing what I have to do," I said with a shrug.

"The same."

Cyrus led me to a pair of gold-inlaid doors, the eagle of Panem draped across them. He knocked once, twice, and pushed open the doors. Before me was a much smaller room than the one downstairs, but much grander. Lining the walls were statuettes and figurines of jade, lapis, and other precious minerals, their polish exquisite, their detail finer than I could imagine. A chandelier above reflected every shade of light across the room, a thousand hues flickering against hardwood floor. In the middle of the room, a hardwood table stood over a rug emblazed with the same Capitol eagle as the one on the door, flanked by a dozen mahogany chairs. Light form the Capitol skyline shined in from the glass screen on the other side of the room, reflecting into a million twinkling fractals on the walls.

Then there was the people. A gaunt, black-haired man stood over the table with his hands on a chair back, looking over a long piece of paper with hawk-like eyes. He glanced up as soon as the door opened, catching my eyes and staring back without breaking his gaze. Every inch of him reeked of authority, from his perfectly-fitted black coat to his high cheekbones and stout chin. Yet he seemed almost normal – in district terms – to the woman across from him. She was drenched in an off-putting shade of pale blue that covered her from head to toe. Even her hair was blue, and her eyes looked unnatural when she glanced up.

None of them spoke but one, one who I didn't see at first: "Leave us. All of you."

The black-haired man protested. "Sir, one of us should – "

"You too, Taurus. I want to be alone with her. And you, Lucrezia."

_Taurus. Cyrus. Lucrezia. _Elan told me to listen, and I did. I vowed to remember their names. Something told me I'd be seeing them again, and often.

He slipped out from behind a statue as the door closed. I barely saw him at first. The plain gray suit he wore hardly stood out from the grandiosity of the room, and with his hard eyes, jutting jaw, and streaks of gray in his hair, he could have fit in right at home with any older man in District 5. President Snow didn't look much like I imagined a president to look like at all. He didn't seem haughty and he didn't look outrageous. He looked normal.

"Taurus Sharpe would tell me to have security on hand," he said, strolling forward to a chair and grabbing its back with both hands. "But I don't see why I should trust them and not you. Am I wrong?"

I stumbled for an answer. I didn't know what to expect from Creon Snow, but whatever it was, I wasn't prepared. "No. Uh – Mister President."

"'Mister President,'" he scoffed. "The sycophants call me that. They think mindless flattery will get them into my good graces. It might have worked for some rulers. Not me."

My mouth moved before my thoughts came together. "So what do I call you? Creon?"

He grinned, but only with the very corners of his mouth. "Careful Ms. Pike. We're not that well acquainted yet."

I bit my tongue and stood back. Hastiness would get me killed here if I didn't shut up and let the man do the talking. "You're the first victor since I took over the presidency," Creon said, pushing aside a cluster of papers on the table. "They tell me you can be useful. Lucrezia, Taurus, all of them. Even Cyrus says it. I don't know much about you other than that you survived the arena and made a name for yourself here, but that's two things going for you. It's a start."

"Ostensibly," Creon went on. His gaze never broke from mine. "I'm telling you that I want you to watch the other victors. Get to know them. You got to know enough of the other tributes during the Games, so I know you're not too shy for that. Once you get to know them, Lucrezia wants to know everything about them. Our eyes and ears only go so far, and there's nothing better than an inside source telling us every last little detail."

My skin prickled. "You want me to spy on the others? I've barely even met them. They won't trust me."

"A few. Besides,my _advisors_ want you to spy on them. You'll report your findings to Cyrus, who I sent to get you personally tonight. He's trustworthy, if too soft, and you'll know him well soon enough. But that's not what I want."

He planted his hands on the table and lowered his head so his eyes darkened. "What do you think of the Hunger Games?"

"They're…" I started, letting the thought trail off. I bit my lip and looked away, unable to keep up with the president's piercing stare. The glittering fractals of light thrown up along the wall by the great windows looked a little less welcoming. Snow's question felt like a trap. "The districts seemed happy to see me. People are happy to have them."

"A lie," Creon countered. He frowned.

My throat closed up. "Not all lies are bad, but I hate a certain class of lies. Yours was a lie of fear. Others lie out of loyalty, and I can tolerate them. Some lie out of far worse motives," he said. "Lucrezia's a liar. I only tolerate her because she's good at her job. Galan's a liar, and I have half a mind to throw him out of this manor every day. They're liars of opportunity, and I hate that kind of liar. Come walk with me."

He pushed open the great glass doors and let the cold winter draft slip in. Clutching my arms, I followed him out onto the patio. Far below the vine-entwisted gold railing surrounding the balcony, a frozen-over, circular reflecting pool at least a hundred yards across glistened with icy golden light. A marble colonnade encircled it, lined with hardy winter trees and bushes covered in spiny green needles and brown seed pods. I imagined it looked completely different come summer: In my head, I envisioned palm trees reaching high for the sun, shading bright, flowering red bromeliads below. Dozens, maybe hundreds of courtiers might pack the walkways and terraces around the pool, laughing, smiling, even just listening inside what must be a tiny slice of natural peace in the heart of the Capitol's bustle.

"Caro's Gardens," said Creon, sweeping his over the icy pond. "Named after my great-great-uncle. He ruled the Capitol in the months and years after the Dark Days, when the Hunger Games first began. He built this right after the war to get away from the thoughts of the fighting, but ever since then, the House of Snow's controlled the Capitol and all of Panem. My father might have been the longest-ruling Snow, but he wasn't the first. My family's kept a grip on the country through riots, fighting, and discontent all for one reason."

"You lied out of fear of what I'd say," he said, looking out towards the mountains in the distance. "That I might not like what you think of the Games. I don't care. Weak men answer disagreement with executions. If that made my father weak, so be it. He thought only fear could control the country, but it brought him two riots, one that tore District 8 apart only fifteen years ago. Others say differently. Cyrus tells me mercy would better control the masses, but there's a fine, easily-crossed line between compassion and weakness. One step over it and everyone with an ounce of ambition is free to wreak havoc. When those who would take advantage of kindness are free to cross lines, chaos ensues. That's how District 13 began the strife that led to the Dark Days."

"So shoot for somewhere in the middle?" I asked.

"Exactly. It's order that keeps people in line. Laws. When the rules are clear and just everyone understands them, they have no excuse to break them. Those who would are criminals, worth neither mercy nor compassion."

He narrowed his eyes and stared off towards the city lights. "It's no surprise that the country's unstable. The Hunger Games are as arbitrary as things come."

"You sound like that you want to end them."

"I do. But only a fool ends overnight an event that's run nearly a century."

It felt strange to defend something that had nearly taken my life, but Creon said he welcomed disagreement. I decided to test my luck. "I don't think your father would've agreed."

"So he's weak and a fool," Creon said without missing a beat. "He has his chances. He had Finnick Odair fall into his lap, a perfect tool to keep tabs on the Capitol with, and he turned him into a prostitute. Only a fool does that."

I shuddered. _What?_ Creon must have sensed my hesitation, because he said, "That new to you? You killed three or four other kids six months ago and you think my father didn't destroy victors after they'd won? Ha. I'd hoped you were smart. I still hope so, but there was a reason I wanted the boy from 3 to win."

"What?"

"I'm not proud of engaging in these things. I'd rather step away from the Games entirely, but I know what position I'm in, Ms. Pike. I need people on my side, and I need someone who won't lie to me. Someone who can do dirty work in this city full of lies."

He turned back to me, his face all stone and steel. "My father died a year ago. Do you know how?"

I stuttered. My mind was still reeling from the last few things Creon had said: _The last president turned victors into toys...and this one didn't even want to see me survive. Why does he care what happens to me now?_ "No."

"The official autopsy says he was murdered," Creon said. "District anarchists won the blame. But I have reason to believe it was an inside job – someone or a group who tired of my father's power and wanted some of it for themselves. The thought ate away at me for days. I spent a long time in my early adulthood away from the Capitol and in the districts – 8, 2, 1, others. I realize I don't know these people around me half as well as they know me. All this time, no one has watched the watchers."

I knew where this was going. "You don't want me to spy on the victors. You want me to spy on the Capitol instead."

"Maybe there is a brain in there. That's what I want. Lucrezia, Taurus, Cyrus, Galan, even Julian, all of them. I want to bring order to Panem. I want to find out who murdered my father. And I want to find out who would stand against me in these things. I don't have reason to trust them. I don't have reason to trust you. But you're new. No one _really_ knows what to make of you yet, and I can't let you slip past me."

In the darkness of the night, Creon looked like a dangerous predator. He didn't have the same old authority of the last president, nor the same frown. He didn't smile with downcast eyes, but balled a fist instead. "I want you to report to Cyrus and Lucrezia on the other victors, and while you do, I want you to report to me on them. Do your job, and maybe you and I can go a long way to safeguarding Panem's future for years to come. No more riots. No more Hunger Games. Law, order, and peace. Nothing more. Nothing less."


	33. Less Noble Intentions

_**+ Big shout-out again to Dancing-Souls for another great review!  
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The Capitol festivities bored Elan.

It wasn't the small talk, the fake smiles, and the outlandish clothing worn by the city's elite that bothered the escort so much. Not even the obscene amount of food served turned him away, although he questioned some of the cuisine choices. Jellied eels seemed a stretch on the seafood table at the presidential feast.

No, it was the _lack_ of small talk that bothered Elan so much. Every year during this last leg of the Victory Tour, the hushed whispers and darkened gazes in shadowy back rooms disappeared. One mention of a dangerous subject elicited nervous laughs from the bold and sent the craven scurrying for the nearest exit. Even the Head Gamesmaker was hesitant to chat beyond the pleasantries of the Victory Tour. Galan Greene hadn't said more than three words to Elan during Terra's entire stay in the Capitol. Maybe it was all the cameras focused so tightly on the Hunger Games staff like Elan that cautioned people's normally loose lips, or maybe it was the scrutiny of the Peacekeepers to ensure that everything went off without a hitch. Either way, Capitol intrigue dried up for this week every year.

It was so _boring_.

Elan didn't climb the steps to the Hunger Games Control Center with much enthusiasm on Terra's last day in the Capitol. Coordinating with Galan Greene over the return to District 5 didn't promise to be much fun with the Head Gamesmaker's reluctance over the last few days, especially on Greene's home turf in his hub for all things Games-related. Elan was no fan of this place. He conducted his business as an escort out _there_, in the streets, in the homes, and in concealed nooks and crannies where one could solicit sponsorships with all sorts of wild, borderline-seditious promises. The Control Center wasn't so concealed – not with its spacious, well-lit central nexus filled with computer terminals, holographic projections, and work stations for dozens of Games staffers, as well as rooms for each district's party. There was only privacy in this place in times like now, when no one was in there to share anything juicy.

He sure didn't expect company as he climbed the white marble steps towards the great bronze doors to the Control Center, stepping into the shade of the building's ornate colonnade out front.

"Another early riser," a dark, heavy voice called out. "What an unusual surprise. I'd have thought an escort in your position would have more work late at night, rather than just after sunrise."

Elan looked up. A tall, lanky man dressed in a long black lab coat stood just outside the doors, a red folder in his hands. His chin's sharply-cut blonde stubble made his jaw look jutting and pronounced, cutting out any of the joy in his tight smile. Elan had only meet the Capitol's science chief, Varno Rensler, once. He was a newcomer to his position, having risen into leadership in Coriolanus Snow's last year in power, but Rensler had already made his mark on the Games. Elan had heard plenty of chatter about the mutts last summer, especially the most dangerous one – the one that had been almost human, the one that had almost taken Terra's life more than once and had kept the arena on its toes.

He decided to play ball with the man. No one was here, anyway, especially not at this hour.

"It's so hard to stand out," Elan smiled, clutching his hands behind his back and walking up the last few steps to the doors. "I can't even stay ahead of the fashions. I suppose I only have my sunrises to separate me from the rest."

Varno's smile twitched. "I can't agree more. Of course, it must be hard to stand out in other ways for a man in your position. Difficult when the district you escort goes more than twenty years without a hint of winning the Games. Must be a bore."

"Oh, I assure you, I haven't been running around as an escort that long," Elan said, throwing in just a hint of a chuckle. "Although even if I had, I'm sure I could entertain myself."

"All the cameras you smile into must be so entertaining themselves."

"Just as much as your…what are they, science projects, do, I assume."

Varno nodded. "What's a job without a little fun?"

"From what I gather, you're having quite a bit of fun in yours," said Elan. "Mutts that look like men? Psychotropic drugs? I can't imagine what you have in store for future arenas after your encore."

"Just getting warmed up, my friend."

"It's so good that we've become friends so fast. Especially since we've barely met. But you probably don't have much time for such things: It's a wonder how we've gone from trumped-up dogs and beasts in the arena to what we had last year – and for such an unassuming Hunger Games. The 96th iteration doesn't seem particularly special. I can only guess at what you say to Galan Greene to win his approval for your projects. Or do. That is, if you're not going above him."

"You said it yourself. Entertainment."

"Oh, silly me. It's always the mundane reasons."

"Of course," Varno said, before Elan could go on. He leaned forward, his smile sliding into a smirk. "I hear I'm not the only one whose job involves a little fun. Word goes around about all the escorts. Effie Trinket in District 4 is the best, they say. But not you. You're the one willing to do what others won't, isn't that it?"

"Now wherever would such a rumor start?"

"Wherever indeed. But it's not the only rumor I hear," he continued. Varno lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, lowering his head so that his eyes darkened in the morning light. "Voices here and there have told me many things, but when put together, they say _you're_ taking a particular interest in your new victor."

"And why not? You said it yourself. District 5's gone quite a long time without winning."

"Convenient. Right at the time when Creon Snow welcomes his first victor as well, and right when so many rumors speak about Terra Pike's newfound…_popularity_…inside Snow's halls. Even more convenient when it sounds as if you're giving more advice to her than most escorts would their victors. Even more than her mentors. Convenient. A fifteen year-old girl new to the Capitol is easily manipulated."

"Oh, the things people say."

"Exactly. The things they say."

Varno moved to leave, but stopped a step after passing Elan. "Of course, it's a good thing we're both so supportive of our new president. One can only imagine what would happen if people around the Hunger Games had less noble intentions in such a time of transition."

Elan smiled.

**/ / / / /**

After six days in the Capitol and more than two weeks on the Tour, coming home was a welcome relief. It wasn't the Capitol that had bothered me. I would've liked to have spent days, weeks, maybe even more time exploring the place. The Forum, Caro's Gardens, the wide avenues lined with gold and marble sculptures and the alley storefronts glowing in green neon light, all of it tempted me with a more exciting world than the red desert of home that I returned to.

If, of course, I _could_ explore all those things. The Tour hadn't given me the chance. Every night I was there I looked down from my window in the Training Center's fifth floor, watching the revelers on the streets below in their fancy outfits, without a single camera or microphone in their faces. I didn't have that luxury. All the attention bothered me, stifled me, and choked the air so that I couldn't step more than a few feet without someone shouting at me. Now with the president asking favors of me and his council pressing me into their service, I couldn't see any way to find that freedom I wanted.

I envied Finch and Daud. They were average victors. They had famous names, sure, and faces people recognized, but they were old commodities, known commodities. People gave them space. Back here I had all the space I wanted – and nothing to do with it. The sand and rocks of the canyon hadn't changed over the past three weeks. Still, escaping the scrutiny was worth it.

I couldn't wait until someone _else_ won the stupid Hunger Games. I'd be happy to give up the spotlight.

The white winter sun was high overhead as I trudged back to Victor's Village. A burlap sack I'd filled with squash, cornmeal, cactus pears, and a pound of salt pork bumped against my back with each step. The hard earth crunched here on the ridge overlooking the muddy river cutting through the canyon, with the red rock walls looming high above. They barely cast shadows in the noonday sun, and even in the midst of winter, it was hot. The dry air pricked my throat.

Someone tall and well-built leaned against the stone arch in front of the houses. I paused, squinted, and sighed. _New kid_. Blaze from work apparently was interested in more than just talking while fixing solar panels. Great.

"Are you waiting for Daud?" I joked as I trudged up the walk. It was a poor effort. "He could probably use company."

Blaze snorted. I was right about his looks: When he wasn't wearing mountains of clothing to protect against the sun and the wind up top, he was a handsome guy. For a person who didn't have a family to fall back on for a living besides his work up top, he did made out pretty well – if his muscles were any indication. Even his clothes seemed brighter and cleaner than that of most people in the district. His purple scarf to keep away the sand and the wind seemed to shine in the sun. It put my old, worn yellow one I'd used since I was twelve to shame.

"Doubt Daud, or whatever he is, would talk much even if I knew him," Blaze said. "You talk to him much?"

"Nope."

"Yeah, see? Figured."

"Are you here to talk about Daud? I'm not really a good reference."

"You brought it up."

I rolled my eyes and headed towards my house. "I'm going home, unless you need something."

"I do," he said, following me down the street. Dust-covered windows started down from the empty victor houses all around. "Actually wanted to tell you something."

"It couldn't wait for work?"

"You mean when you decide to show up and make Orson happy for the free labor? If you've got a schedule, I sure don't know about it."

"What do you want, Blaze?" I said. I shoved open my front door harder than I'd intended, letting it slam against the wall with a loud _bang_. A sheet of dust snowed down onto the floor.

He shut the door without a sound. If Blaze was impressed by my house's fancy interior, he didn't show it. He barely even looked away from me. "Things I heard around town when I was down in the Grottos today. What'd you buy?"

"Food. When are you getting to the point?"

He laughed. "How'd you even get through the Tour? It's like small talk has insulted your honor or something."

"I'll kick you out of my house."

"Alright, fine. Yeesh. Rumor I heard at one of those butcher shops in the Grottos where they cut up gods-know-what said your family's having some trouble with the Peacekeepers."

I spun around. He had my attention now. "What?"

"A Peacekeeper, at least. Dunno if more than one."

I frowned. "My brother would've told me if that was so."

"You've been back two days. Also, your brother's not, well…"

"Not what?"

"I think he's a little scared to talk to you, Terra. You're kind of intimidating when you're dragging sacks of food back from town and glaring at everyone. And, you know, the small talk thing. You might want to practice socializing a bit."

I didn't hear him. I spun towards the door and slammed it open again as he called, "You're just gonna leave this food out?"

"Don't rob me," I yelled without looking back. "Actually, go ahead. I don't have anything great."

The Merchant Quarter wasn't crowded by the time I hurried into town. It was typical: Usually business heated up around four in the afternoon, as shifts started to change from the afternoon crews to the evening personnel on the power plants and the workers from topside came back down before the sun set. Mostly night workers strolled about the dusty alleys now, taking care of errands before work began. Merchants assailed them from their stands with sales pitches, offering everything the desert offered and more. _Fifty sols a potato! No rot; these are the freshest you'll find! Don't want your kids going hungry. Twenty talents for a pair of boots good enough to last you a year! I've got thirty men who can vouch for them. Doesn't matter where you work, topside, the dam, algae farms, refineries, wherever, they'll serve you good. I'll even throw in extra laces for eighty sols each!_

It was worse when they spotted me hurrying through the street. I felt like they _expected_ me to buy everything just to spend my money. I didn't have much to do with the mountain of cash the Capitol gave me, but I sure didn't want to spend it on enough potatoes to fill the canyon.

My father's cantina slouched over the street by the riverfront. It looked more worn-down than I remembered for some reason. Maybe it was the way the stilts that held up the patio over the river seemed splintered and old that gave the image, or the way the roof's red stucco tiles chipped in places, leaving an uneven, blotchy look. Whatever it was, I stopped in front of the slatted wooden doors that led into the shadowy, smoky interior I'd walked through countless times before I'd wandered off to the Capitol. I'd been back only once in the past six months, and that had been more of a formality than anything after I'd returned from the Games.

I didn't have anything to say to my parents. As much as I cared about Flint, he and I hadn't spoken much since the Games. Maybe Blaze was right. Yet I still didn't want to leave things up to chance if some Peacekeeper _was_ bothering them. I didn't even know if I could do anything about it, but I could, could I just leave my family out to dry?

Before I could waffle any longer in front of the cantina, the doors swung open with a _bang!_ Daud strolled out, swinging a half-filled jug of something brown and humming a slow, somber tune to himself. He stopped as soon as he saw me.

"Huh," he grunted.

"Huh," I replied.

A moment of awkward silence passed. "Well go in, then," Daud said at last. "You're letting the cool air out."

"It's never cool inside. It never has been."

"Well, go change that while you're inside. You lived here."

"It's hot so you'll drink more and spend more."

Daud grumbled and pushed past me, muttering something that sounded like, "Thieving whores." I shoved the doors open and stepped inside this place I knew so well. The air was still hazy like always, the bar's wood a little slick, and an old wooden chair topped over in a corner here and there throughout the room. I could still here the dull hum of the yellow lights hanging overhead and mounted on stark iron holders on the wall. The place was brown and dim and smelled like armpit, but it was familiar. It was the closest and saddest approximation of a home I could think of.

There was a difference, however: It was quiet and empty. Not a single soul stirred inside. When I stepped on a loose floorboard, the sound echoed around every corner. Before, even during the morning and midday period there had always been _some_ patrons partaking in a drink, a bite to eat, or an obscene conversation. No matter what this place was to me, it had a reputation as being the best bar in town. Yet I didn't see even a hint of my family in here now, nor even the trace of the two wait girls my father paid to keep customers happy or the old singing bard, Bear, who always came in with his clunky guitar and played sweet tunes that seemed so out of place with the usual crowds.

It was haunting.

A knocked-over mug still lay flat on the bar, dribbling the dregs of a brown ale that I figured Daud had been drinking. When I went over to take a look, one of the doors leading to the kitchen swung open. One of the wait girls – Marianne I think her name was, although I'd never talked much with either of them – walked out, looked up, and immediately dropped a dish cloth upon seeing me.

"Hey, I'm looking – " I started, but I didn't get past three words before she hurried back behind the door without so much as a "hello." I guess she knew me.

It wasn't more than a minute before the door opened again. It wasn't Marianne this time but Flint, his hair a little more disheveled than the last time I'd seen him, his face seemingly a little more gaunt, but still the brother I recognized. A brown blotch stained the front of his shirt from chest to navel.

Neither of us said a word for a moment. He looked confused, his eyebrows scrunched as if he expected me to be anywhere else. "Terra," he said at last. "What're you doing here?"

I didn't know what to say. Suddenly I felt stupid for never coming back here and for retreating into my shell of a house for the last six months. This place I called home felt like an alien world. Flint sounded like a stranger. Suddenly I felt I recognized Finch more than I did my own brother. He'd told me my parents hadn't wanted to see me, and I believed him – but how much effort had I put in, really? I hadn't even bothered to try and bridge the gap between me and them.

"Hey," I said, giving a half-hearted wave and leaning against the bar to avoid looking to formal and awkward. "I just…came." How was I supposed to say, _This one guy I know from work says a Peacekeeper's giving you trouble_?

"Are you looking for something?"

"This one guy I know from work says a Peacekeeper's giving you trouble."

Flint reacted like I'd attacked him. He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the side door that led to the rooms we called home, the rooms where I'd ran around barefoot as a little girl and poked sticks at spiders on our old woolen rug in the living room. Flint didn't stop there, though: I didn't protest as he led me down the stairs, past our washroom, and through the wooden door on the right. I knew what was in there before I walked in. A pair of beds with old, creaky mattresses lined the walls parallel from each other, both covered in limp, gray cloth blankets. Splinters lined the side of a squat wooden desk beneath a slit window that looked out over the river. Years ago my homework from school would've covered that desk – if Flint hadn't knocked the papers off to do his own work. In the corner of the room still sat an old wooden rocking chair with a brown stuffed animal on it, a frumpy-looking dog the size of a large melon covered in shaggy brown fuzz. The stuffed dog, Shep, I'd named him, had called this room home almost as long as I had and spent far too many nights in the stranglehold of my arms during thunderstorms.

Flint wasn't in the mood to reminisce by the looks of things. "Where'd you hear that?" he said, shutting the door before he finished his sentence.

"I told you," I sighed, leaning back against the door. "Just a guy I know."

"You just 'know' him?"

"Look, I just wanna see if I can help."

"Why?"

His face dropped as soon as he said the word. It still hurt, and I looked away. "Sorry," said Flint. "Just don't worry about it."

"Can you just tell me if there's anything going on?"

"Fine. Yeah, there's some cocky Peacekeeper who comes in here three or four nights a week. Skinny guy, but he picks fights and no one can really fight back because, well, yeah. Dad can't throw him out, either, and it's driving people away. He's probably gonna fire Marianne in a few days and money's getting a bit tight. More than a bit, really."

My stomach lurched. I had more money than I knew what to do with and here was my brother complaining about the very lack of cash. "I can give you guys some," I said.

"I'm not asking you for a handout."

"Flint, I have all this stuff and I don't use it. It's not a handout when you're my family. What am I gonna do, light money on fire?"

"You have enough to worry about, sis."

"Yeah, but – I mean, no. I'm fine."

"What?"

"Nothing."

He bit his lip and gave me a suspicious look. I couldn't talk about what worried me with him, especially not here. My secrets had to stay that way.

"Just don't worry about it, Terra," Flint said. "We'll figure something out. I can go work at one of the refineries if need be."

"You don't want to do that. You don't even like that stuff."

"Doesn't matter. It pays."

"You'll take their money but not mine?"

"I'll take what I earn."

"I'm not trying to make you and Mom and Dad feel like beggars, Flint! I don't hate you. I'm trying to help. I know I've shied away since I came back last summer but I don't want us to be strangers. You're my freaking twin brother!"

He paused, biting his tongue as if on the verge of admitting something before saying, "Mom and Dad might be a little cold right now to you, but we know you're going through a lot. It's fine. Just don't – "

"At least tell me this guy's name. You don't have to take my money. I can try and see if I can make him stop somehow."

"His name's Pavo. But Terra, please don't so something dumb. I don't know what you do in the Capitol but Peacekeepers are still Peacekeepers."

"I'm already doing enough dumb things," I said through gritted teeth, shoving the door open and making to leave. I stopped when I saw my stuffed dog again. For a minute I considered picking it up one last time, even taking it back to the Village with me. I didn't hate this place, as much as I thought about times in my childhood with loathing during these long, lonely nights in my house when I had too much time on my hands and not enough to do. I could use a friend.

But I didn't take it. Terra the little girl was gone. Terra the victor had enough to deal with.


	34. Many Names to Many People

_**+ Thanks again to Dancing-Souls! Short chapter today. **_

**/ / / / /**

The Peacekeeper problem vexed me.

I pledged to keep it to myself. Maybe it was common knowledge that my family was running into trouble with this Pavo, but the last thing they needed was rumors circling about that District 5's latest victor was interfering with a Peacekeeper at their bar. Things could only go downhill from there. Besides, I'd need to get better at keeping secrets for when I returned to the Capitol, based on the sound of things.

Unfortunately, it left me evading Finch's probing yet again. My mentor meant well, but there was only so much of her pseudo-mothering I could take.

"Terra, you can keep telling me you're fine. I can see when something's upsetting you," she said as I slouched against a kitchen windowsill, my forehead pressed to the glass. "In fact, it'd be kind of obvious to anyone."

"Ha."

"I'm serious. Can you talk to me?"

I sighed. "What do you want?"

"I just want to know what you're thinking. I can relate a little, y'know?"

"No, what do you _really_ want? Why are you always asking things like this? Daud never does. He doesn't care."

She looked hurt. "He does care, Terra. He just doesn't know how to show it."

"Right."

"Come on. We're trying. Look at us: We've never even had anything close to normal lives here at home! Even in the Capitol we're different. Things normal people take for granted, family, love, whatever, those are all mysteries to me. Is it that strange that I want to help someone when I finally, finally get the chance to after all these years?"

"Being a victor didn't stop Finnick Odair from having a family."

"I know. I just…look. I think you can imagine what you'll feel like if twenty, thirty years from now you're standing here in the Village with countless dead kids in your past. You remember their faces. You remember their names. Worst of all, you remember being just _helpless_ as chance or fate or whatever the hells killed them. I spent years thinking I'd never get the chance to watch another victor grow up here in the district. Now someone like you drops into my life and Daud's life and it's like a miracle to us. You've dealt with things so great and you have a bright future, and I don't want you to have to deal with all the things ahead on your own. No one should have to. I've seen what happens to victors who do, and I won't let you turn into that."

My stomach hurt as I looked at Finch. She wore a look of pleading, of want, of someone grasping for something that always strayed an inch out of reach. Her eyes were empty and dull, her frown sad and downcast. I wanted to keep this business to myself, but Finch forced my lips to spill the truth.

I swallowed hard. "There's a Peacekeeper. Some guy named Pavo. He's causing a ruckus in my family's place according to my brother, and it's giving them money trouble. Flint won't accept any help, though, and I just don't know what to do, and – "

Tears threatened to spill out of my eyes. I turned back towards the window to hide from Finch's look, doubts running around in my head. Why did I even care? _Did_ I really even care about my family when they invested so little in me? Why did this make me want to cry?

"Hey," Finch said, pulling me into a hug from behind. I didn't resist. "Hey, it's okay. You don't have to fix everything, alright? Sometimes you just have to let things go."

"I can't."

"You tried, Terra. If you offered and they won't accept, there's nothing you can do."

"I have to."

She sighed. "It's…I'll see if there's anything I can look into, alright? I can't promise you anything, but maybe a word to the mayor or someone can help. I don't know." I sniffed, and she hinted at a smile. "Terra – thanks for telling me, okay? Everything's going to be fine. Promise."

I nodded, although I didn't believe it. Victors couldn't turn away Peacekeepers any more than the average commoner could, but I didn't want to hurt Finch's feelings anymore. Seeing her unhappy because of me hurt too much. "Alright. I need to go. Out."

She stepped back as if to interject, thought better of it, and said, "I - okay. Just, try – ah, stop by for dinner, okay? You shouldn't be alone when you're worried."

Oh, I wouldn't be. I intended to go drink myself into a stupor.

The streets seemed busier than usual for the late afternoon as I walked towards the town center. The sun had already sunk below the jagged canyon walls, bathing the district in shadow even as the sky shined bright blue overhead. I didn't know what I was doing. I'd only touched wine on the Tour during the district feasts, and I'd rarely sampled any of the ale or beer or grog that my father and mother served. Still, enough people had always turned to my family's bar late at nights, looking for a lonely companion in a mug of something alcoholic. I didn't have answers to this stupid Peacekeeper dilemma. Maybe booze would have them.

The Red Mudder was one of the busiest taverns in town, busier than my father's place on its best days and a great place to get lost in for an evening. It was clear to see why: The Mudder catered to District 5's lowest common denominator. The unshaven, the drunk, the pugnacious, the immoral, all types called this dingy place home. The bar sat on riverbank on a curve in the canyon river a ways away from the great dam that overlooked the nicest parts of town. Here, the red dust and dirt turned to mud and the cacti and scrub faded away into ragged, thick weeds that grew in clumps from the gunk. Mud brick workers' houses lined the canyon walls, surrounding holes in the stone wide enough to fit four men abreast. Halls and tunnels led deep into the rock to subterranean alleys and caverns lit only by lamps and lanterns, home to cheap housing units and black market and crime dens alike.

The Mudder didn't seem so different from those places inside. Dozens of patrons in various states of intoxication bantered and bartered over games of dice and smelly drinks. A broken ceiling fan with only three blades groaned, wobbling with each revolution. The lights were pale, dim, and flickering, matching perfectly the stale smell the seemed to come out of the very wooden walls themselves. A pair of wild-haired older women served drinks at the bar, snarling at an unruly man who made clumsy advances each time one passed.

I got looks, but I had a feeling they were more because I was fifteen and female and less because I was a victor. Daud had probably frequented the Mudder many times before.

"Watcha want?" one of the barkeeps grunted as I plopped down on the first stool I could find.

"Just gimme something."

I chucked a coin on the bar for good measure. Good enough for her: The barkeep grabbed a mug, filled it with something brown, and pushed it in front of me with a smirk. It smelled like dirt.

Before I could drink, a man sidled up next to me, sitting down on an open stool and nodding at the mug. "Perhaps a little strong for a small girl, no?"

"I don't care," I grunted.

"Such hostility. I am not here to take advantage of you, although in a place like this, some might. A juvenile decision to come to this establishment of all places."

I glared at him. He wasn't a bad looking man, really: In fact, the intrusive stranger looked just as out of place in the Mudder as I did. His brown coat and rugged black trousers fit the mold of a power plant machinist, but I couldn't tell if a single speck of dirt called his long, strawberry blonde hair home. His high cheekbones almost radiated in the dingy light, and a pair of grey, almost silver eyes and a slight scar along his chin complimented a fine face.

Too bad I didn't want his company.

"That's alright," I said, trying my best to lose him. I glanced down into my mug, doing laps around its rim with my eyes.

He sidled closer. "Perhaps a rush to judgment on my behalf. Teenagers are known for their rash decision-making. In some places, children kill other children for sport. And in other places, I hear they treat in swanky soirees, capped off by private dealings with Creon Snow. What a world we live in."

I glanced at him again. Something was off about this guy, from the smooth, warm way he talked to his taunting, thin smile. "I think the whole world knows I went to the Capitol, yeah."

"But does the whole world know of Creon Snow's suspicions of his closest counselors? Just you, I think. And a few others. Certainly no man who calls District 5 home, of course."

I started to regret coming here. "Do I know you?"

"No, but I know you, Terra Pike."

I tossed another coin on the table and pushed my drink away. "Have fun. I'm leaving."

"Will that solve your Peacekeeper problem?"

That stopped me. I sat back down, scooting my stool as far away from this man as possible. "What're you talking about?"

The man looked around, frowned, and said, "This man. Pavo. His actions are no secret. It is no secret either that his subordinates think him unforgiving, but he is a good yes-man. His Peacekeeper superiors at the garrison are happy no matter how many fights he picks in your father's bar, as long as his reports are clean. It would be a shame if his career took a drastic turn."

"I don't know what you're talking about – "

"You fear reprisal. Wise, but unnecessary. The Peacekeepers cannot touch you for now, not while Creon Snow wants your help, and not while the Capitol crowds still find you novel and attractive. Of course, you need help with your assignment too, do you not?"

I stared. I hadn't told anyone about my talk with the president, especially not any random strangers in District 5 keen on spreading the word. Yet here was this man, talking about what had happened as if it were common knowledge.

Before I could say anything more, the man held up a small silver globe, no larger than a thimble. "It is not a concern that we speak in the open like this. Unfortunately, it appears that Peacekeeper listening devices seem plagued by static, and the other customers are hearing much more noise than normal. A mystery how that happens. But I see you do not trust me. You think me a plant, an informant, perhaps an agent of Snow's coming to test your loyalty. It is no matter. If I cannot tell you what I can offer you, I can show you."

He picked up my mug and drained the contents in one swig. "Your Peacekeeper. Pavo. If you come to the town square tomorrow night at ten, you will find his career ending on a very depressing note."

"No!" I cut in. "Don't kill someone! I don't want that."

"Girl, you will have to deal with much more killing if you're working with the Capitol's elite," the man smiled. "But so be it. Pavo will not die. Of course, you may wish you had chosen otherwise after you see his face tomorrow night."

"Why? If I even believed you, why are you telling me this?"

"It is simple. I am a trader: I offer services for payment. My services are well-tailored to your duties as Creon's proxy, and to your role as a victor. I do not ignore opportunities. For a price, I can grant you many things. Information. Access. For a high price, even death. Or life, which seems much more valuable to you, I believe. But I ask only something minor for Pavo's downfall. I need you to take a letter to someone in this district. That is all."

I folded my arms and frowned. This was a trap. This man clearly wasn't from District 5, and he knew far too much about me to be some common criminal, but that didn't stop him from being a danger to me. "I still don't believe you."

"Smart, or paranoid. You will do well in the Capitol. So be it," the man said, shrugging and turning back to the bar. "Then I will prove it to you and take it on faith that you are a woman of honor. Come by the square at ten tomorrow night. You will see."

"I'm not falling for your trap."

"I'm only a trickster when the job requires it, girl, and this one does not," he said, throwing a coin on the bar for another round. "Sometimes I am a rogue, sometimes a soldier, sometimes a petty criminal. I have many names to many people. When we meet again, you may call me Arrian de Lange."


	35. The Gilded Game

_**+ Thanks for another kind review, Dancing-Souls! There is a big source doc I made that keeps everything straight for me, haha. Gotta make sure I don't accidently conflict with things I wrote earlier. Given that I'm shooting for six books in this "series", there are a lot of names and faces. **_

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I didn't know whether or not to believe this Arrian de Lange, but come ten o'clock on the following night, I made my way to the square. If he was telling the truth, I had an answer to my family's problem – but I wanted to see his work for myself. If he wasn't telling the truth, then I'd find out shortly – and I'd have to keep my eyes open for traps.

To counter that possibility, I'd brought backup.

"Still don't see why you're so quiet about what you're doing," Daud grumbled. He trudged along behind me in the darkness, with only the milky glow from a crescent moon light up our path towards the square. "Don't see why you really need me, either."

"I told you. It's late and you're a big guy," I said.

"Like anyone's really going to rape a victor. They'd be gutted by a Peacekeeper in ten minutes."

"It's dark. No one would see."

"Ha! As if eyes are the only way they see. Stupid excuse."

"You can always go home and cry to Finch about it."

"Hm. Nah."

Lights flickered off one by one in the buildings around us as workers prepared for the next day's work. The flame atop the Church of the Triad's belltower defied the night, casting twitching shadows along the dusty road. It was quiet at this hour of the night as the hum of the still night air replaced the usual din of the crowded inner town. An owl's hoot, echoing along the canyon walls, was deafening.

Daud grumbled, "Is this going to take all night?"

"No. Just stay quiet."

"Why? Are you robbing someone? Like you need the money."

I shushed Daud as the buildings of the town square loomed up before us. They looked so much different at night, so dark, so imposing even though they were barely ant hills compared to the Capitol's skyscrapers. These buildings weren't new and shiny, but old, full of dust and ghosts. Behind them towered the dam, great, white, and harder than steel. It looked insurmountable against the dark sky above, all two hundred meters of it. The whole scene made me feel small, notwithstanding the nerves I felt about what could happen next.

A small alcove beside a tailor along the square's outer rim beckoned as a good waiting spot. It was dark and out of the way, and the four Peacekeepers I saw standing around the front of the courthouse wouldn't so much as notice Daud and me in here. I'd remembered standing up in front of that building just a week ago as I'd returned from the Capitol, seeing all the faces below, indifferent to whatever speech I'd give, eager to go about their business and return to tending to the gears that made District 5 churn. The place was a veritable graveyard now, as only the Peacekeepers stirred in the square. An early night in for the shopkeepers, I guessed.

"You picked a right terrible location," Daud muttered as he squeezed into the alcove with me. It wasn't much of a fit: The hole was more of a ditch than anything. Perhaps it had led to a shed or something one day in the past, but now it was little more than a bored-out gutter in the dirt with a slight wooden overhang littered with splinters. At least it was dark.

"I just don't want to be seen," I said.

"You could actually tell me why, you know."

I said nothing. I hadn't wanted to get Daud involved in the first place, and the less he knew about any of this, the better.

It didn't take long before the square heated up. With a loud _bang!_ the doors to the courthouse burst open. A man dressed in plain white clothes stumbled out, tumbling past the Peacekeeper sentries and falling into the dust. Two Peacekeepers walked out from inside, guns at their sides, clad in full body armor aside from their helmets. I recognized the one to the right as Evla, the burly captain of the district's garrison, a woman known for her strange lax attitude towards the district while maintaining a rigid hierarchy amongst the men under her command. Given the guns, I figured whoever was clawing in the dirt wasn't just some random thief.

"The hell are we watching?" asked Daud, but his tone had changed. He wasn't grumbling so much, and when I looked over, I caught him squinting to catch the action in the square.

Evla strolled up to her victim, a loose grip on her rifle but a tight sneer on her face. "You little bastard. I actually trusted you. All that, and you do this?"

The man in the dirt tried to scamper away, but he didn't make it more than a few paces before Evla's boot connected with his face. He spat up something gooey into the dust, turned over, and said, "I dunno what this's all about. I didn't do nothing!"

"Don't give me that crap, Pavo," Evla spat. "I've got all the data on you. One of your little contacts apparently had a change of heart. Files, cash transactions, dates. I was happy to take it. You're not just shitting on your uniform, you're doing it in the stupidest way possible."

"I don't know –"

"Before we get to the good stuff, I have to ask. What even tempts you to join a racketeering ring? Are you bored? Do you think you're underpaid, or something? Because you're about to get far less where you end up."

Pavo paused. The night froze. "I don't know what you're talking about!" he pleaded. "But forget about me, how many other criminals are in this district that you're ignoring?"

"I don't give a hump what they do to each other!" Evla said. "They can stab each other for all I care, as long as they meet their quotas. But when _you_ do it, then it's my problem. Then this happens. At least I don't have to deal with the fallout. We got someone from the Capitol in to do that. Just arrived a few hours ago."

"Wha – no, please."

Evla snapped her fingers. From the darkness of the courthouse's interior walked another figure, a short man with low, sloping shoulders and a mountainous chest that dwarfed his small head. Two beady eyes glistened in the moonlight, and when I squinted for a closer look, I could see him smiling. His wiry blonde hair looked toxic.

Daud exhaled. "What in the names of the Shadow and the Night am I watching, girl?"

"Well!" the new man said, his voice cheerful and chipper as he strolled down the courthouse steps. "It's Pavo, right? I hear you're in a bit of trouble."

Pavo's reaction told the whole story. He gasped and scampered back, slipping on a stray rock before Evla stomped on his chest to keep him still. "You really think there's a lot of places to go?" the short man laughed, strutting up on Pavo's right. He cracked his knuckles. In the still night, the sound was like a gunshot. "You could hide out in the tunnels, I guess, in which case we could just pump in water and flush you out. Or you could run towards the canyon end and we could see how far you get before you die of exposure or a river lamprey gets you. A mite tempting, huh? I do like a little bit of fun before we get to the nasty bit."

"No – no –"

"So much squealing! You're like a pig. When we get back to the Capitol, I should look into your archives and change up some things. Goodbye Pavo the Peacekeeper, hello Pig the Peacekeeper. Of course, where you're going, you'll be making a little more disturbing sounds, hm? Bit hard to say much without a tongue."

The man leaned back as Pavo whimpered. "Sorry. Bit morbid of me. I kind of get carried away. You understand, yea? Sometimes I wonder if Avoxes sound out things in their head and try to say them, and just end up sounding like brain-dead farm animals because they've no tongue. Or do they make strange noises because they like the sound of them? Or is it like echolocation? Guess you'll find out, lucky man. Take him off to the airship. The dust is making my throat all scratchy."

Pavo moaned as Evla and the other Peacekeeper grabbed him around the arms and dragged him off. I was frozen in the alcove. By this time I had no doubt that this Arrian was telling the truth: He'd dealt with my Peacekeeper problem, and in a far more gruesome way that I'd imagined. I'd told him not to kill the man. He'd certainly done that.

I only remembered Daud was there when he breathed out and said, "Two hells. You knew this was going to happen, didn't you? You're caught up in this?"

"No!" I pleaded as the Peacekeepers shut the doors of the courthouse. Darkness and silence returned to the square. "I mean, I didn't mean for this to happen!"

Daud's expression hardened. "Yes you did. What, did that man offend you? Gods know why you brought me here. Expecting a betrayal? You have their ear, don't you?"

"No!"

"They have you already. You should have listened to Finch, kept your head down, smiled and stayed as neutral as possible. Now you're a player in their game, and I know just as well as anybody that you can't quit once you've started."

He stepped out of the alcove, glanced around to make sure we weren't noticed, and turned towards me with a frown. "You're turning out just like me. You can find your own way home."

His words stuck in my head as I made my way back to the Village. What game was Daud familiar in? I'd always seen him as a down-on-his-luck victor shying away from the spotlight, but he clearly had experience in the Capitol circles – something Elan had brought up back during my Games, when my escort had told me of Daud's importance to my chances at victory. What was I getting myself into?

Predictably, my house's lights were on when I stumbled back home. I had a feeling who would be visiting, and when I opened my door and trudged into my kitchen, I wasn't disappointed. Arrian de Lange sat in one of my chairs with his feet up on my kitchen table, drinking a glass of water and staring out the window. "Was it to your liking?" he said as I walked in.

"What did you do?" I blurted out.

"I did not kill him, that is for sure. I listen to requests."

"That…that man from the Capitol is going to make him into an Avox!"

"Ixion? Probably worse than an Avox. He is well-known in the Capitol's worst circles. Spymaster Lucrezia Bierce's fist. To be sure, Pavo will give you no more trouble."

Arrian turned back to me. He smiled, his mouth just twitching up enough to get the point across without looking happy. "And now we find out if you are a woman of honor, no? I completed a task, ahead of schedule, too. Now I ask you for something."

"Hang on. What are you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're not from this district."

"I believe I told you that already."

"Then what? Are you spying on me? Did the president send you?"

Arrian smirked. "You would not have seen the president's man if he spied on you. I do not represent Creon Snow. I have a different backer."

"Then what's your game?"

"The game everyone of importance in the Capitol plays, Terra Pike. The Gilded Game. The unspoken but understood way of life among the Capitol's highest."

Here we go. Whatever Daud was getting at, whatever Elan had hinted at so many times, this man finally had put a label on. "And what is this?"

Arrian took a long swig of water. "Do you wonder why so many in the Capitol look so strange? I can see it. So can all of you in the districts. Their makeup, their clothes, their surgical adjustments. Colorful, gaudy even. Inhuman."

"Culture, I guess."

"No. Wrong. Well, not entirely wrong, but mostly. They are not expressions of individuality but the opposite, masks to confuse and disorient. They are velvet veils to camouflage the intentions of even the most famous in the most opulent of settings. Lime green hair is in this winter. A businesswoman with such hair may shout to the world that she is in tune with fashion trends, but in reality, she seeks to blend in with a certain audience in order to gain their favor. Perhaps a man from politics implants an adjustment to his face and wears a certain style robe to fit in with the merchants, gaining vital information that he passes to a man with more need for it. In turn, he is handsomely rewarded, and uses those rewards to better his own station and weaken his rivals. Everything in the Capitol's highest circles – and in District 1's, even, as the Capitol is its spawn – has a purpose, from grand overtures to the minutest greetings."

"So how does Pavo fit into this?"

"That anyone thinks Pavo is a key figure in the Game is laughable," Arrian said, swishing the contents of his glass around. "You. Are a player in the Game. The Hunger Games are a big part of the Game, as players vie for the favor of victors and influence on those close to the annual event. It just so happens that I, and the one I work for, play. I know what Creon Snow has asked from you. I know what Lucrezia Bierce and Taurus Sharpe and the others want from you. Above all, I have a better idea of what _you_ want out of all this. A better idea than they have, at least."

"And what's that?"

He smiled. "You cared for Ember, no? For Glenn, and even for Tethys from District 4. You barely knew these people during your time in the arena, but you cared nonetheless."

I folded my arms, frowned, and said, "So?"

"You do not want deaths on your conscience. You did not want Pavo's."

"So? No one does."

"Not true. But even if it were, you will have deaths coming. It is the nature of the Hunger Games, and to minimize that blow, you will want victors. Less children dying because you could not save them. I can give you that. For a price."

"Bullshit."

"You think the Hunger Games random?"

"No, but – "

"Then…"

"You can't do that. You can't just pluck people to win."

"You saw what I just did to Pavo."

"I'm still not buying it. If you're playing some game, you have an angle. You just said you all have masks."

Arrian sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Very well. You may regret not taking up my offer if your children die this year. But I will always be around should you change your mind. Now we see whether _you_ are worth offering, no?"

He stood up and laid an envelope on the table. It was thin and covered in dirt, its edges wrinkled with one singed. "There is a man," Arrian said, his gaze hardening. "Pyre York. He is the high priest of the Church here, its leader and most reverent. The followers look up to him. You may usually find him in the church itself, but I do not what you to go to there. This man, York, spends much of his time in the tunnels of the canyon walls, specifically in a precinct called Redhammer. I wish for you to take this message to him. That is all I ask."

The longer I looked at the envelope, the more sinister it appeared. Arrian clearly had motives beyond just bartering with me. What was inside? "Why?"

"He is an interesting man," Arrian said and shrugged, downing the last of his water. "A corrupt one who collects the donations of his churchgoers and uses them to furnish his own lifestyle, yes, but interesting. That letter contains information that would make him more interesting in the long run."

"How am I supposed to find him? The canyon tunnels go on for a while into the rock, and I've barely been in them much. I grew up out here. Besides, everyone says Redhammer's home to a lot of thieves and black market types."

"They are not incorrect. But you know people too, hm?" Arrian said. "Go as Terra Pike and someone is bound to attack you and try to rob you, I think, if not worse. But camouflage yourself, conceal yourself as you will have to do in the Capitol, and…you have a better chance. As for finding the man, I believe you know someone who can find him. A boy named Blaze, yes? He is not devoutly religious, but he is much more than you think he is. Perhaps asking for help is your best bet."

Arrian stood up, wiped dust off of his jacket, and said, "Before I go. Perhaps it is best if you keep your mentors out of your dealings. At least your two fellow victors here in District 5. You may bring Daud Mosely along with you tonight, but he is played by the Game. He is not one to play it. Should you wish to thrive, you should seek to avoid his example."


	36. Shadow in the Faith

_**+ Thanks to Dancing-Souls and melliemoo for the great reviews! Bit more of an in-depth look into one of the Panemese religions in this chapter, as well as the darker side of District 5 and a man who will play a big part down the road.**_

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"You what?"

Blaze looked at me like I'd eaten toxic mushrooms. I, for one, thought my request was straightforward: Make me up and dress me like any old worker and help me get into one of the seediest places in the district. It seemed perfectly logical to me.

My friend – friend? Coworker? – only laughed. "Listen, Terra. Redhammer's not a place to go sightseeing. There's a reason it's called what it is. People are hard there, and plenty of them die. Sometimes bloodily."

"That's not why it's called that."

"Yeah, well, it's a good story. And sorta true."

"I don't need to be there all day. Just long enough to drop something off."

"What exactly is 'something?'"

"Nothing. Look, I'll just do it myself if you're scared of going there."

I didn't know why I was feeling so bold. Even with Pavo's fate sealed, I had no reason to trust Arrian. The man had connections clearly, but without knowing his intentions, I didn't know what he'd do: Frame me? Kill me? Yet while doubts ate away at my resolve, curiosity built my strength back up. Even if I didn't know what was coming next from the mysterious stranger, I wanted to find out.

Besides, his words still tempted me: "_I can give you that. For a price_." I still didn't believe him, but my skepticism was fighting a tough battle to hold on. Could I pass up the chance, no matter how small, at a leg up towards saving tributes – _my_ tributes – in the Hunger Games? Curiosity was turning the fight into a slugfest. I couldn't let my questions go unanswered.

I'd won over Blaze, at least. "Fine," he said with a roll of his eyes. "It's not like you need to get fancy for the tunnels. No makeup or whatever you do in the Capitol."

That was a stretch. Twenty minutes later, I barely recognized the girl in my bathroom mirror. Using only the makeup products my stylists had left behind from before the Tour, Blaze had turned me into a dirt-covered, tangled-haired, scarred girl who had seen better days. A nasty brown line dug a gorge from just under my eye to my jawline, and what looked like an open sore dotted my chin. A wild mane of brown, dust-strewn hair replaced my usual ponytail, and dark circles of sleep deprivation underlined my eyes. Gone was any semblance of Capitol clothing, or even merchant-style garb: Blaze had draped a gray cloak with two ratty holes in it over my head, the hood hanging just below my hairline. It was an impressive makeover. With my work clothes covering up the rest of me from the neck to the ankle, I felt I could have concealed all sorts of dangerous things.

According to Blaze, that was the point.

"Can't do anything about your eyes, but hey, blue's kinda normal," he said. "Just go for it. Good luck, hey?"

"You're not coming?" I asked. I frowned, lowered my head, and did my best acting to look as downbeat as I could.

He sighed. "I didn't….ugh, fine. You're looking at me like that on purpose."

"What look?"

"Yeah. That gave it away."

The tunnels that cut through the towering canyon walls ran all over the district, but Blaze and I were headed to the outskirts. Redhammer and most of the housing for the poorest workers lay just inside District 5's security perimeter. We had no electric fence or wall such as those I'd seen in District 12 and 11; instead, an array of black pyramids fitted with sensors kept track of disturbances and fed camera feeds back at the Peacekeeper garrison overlooking the dam. Anyone trying to escape the district could easily walk out. It was staying on the run that was impossible – if the Peacekeepers even cared enough to follow. Dehydration and heat stroke could kill as easily as a hovercraft in the desert.

It was a hike from the Victor's Village. Despite leaving before noon, the sun had already retreated behind the canyon's top by the time we reached the outskirts. Here, rickety wooden and mud brick buildings threatened to topple into the river. Multiple families could live inside each one, walling off rooms with furniture and rocks to save money on housing. It was a far cry from the merchant quarter, or even the sectors that housed the well-paid workers who tended to the dam or the algae biofuel farms. Here the men were hard and the woman strong, built up from toiling in the geothermal plants and coal burners, but it wasn't the kind of place to raise children in.

Blaze stopped me in front of a gaping hole in the canyon wall, wide enough to fit five men abreast and lined with flickering yellow lights. "Where exactly are we going in Redhammer? This place is big, Terra. You can get lost if you don't know your way around. Hells, I can get lost sometimes."

I took a deep breath. I could trust him, yeah? "I'm going to see the high priest of the church. Guy named Pyre York."

Blaze's eyes bulged. "Do you even _go_ to church?"

"No. So?"

"Terra, they call him 'The Torch.' Y'know, 'The Flame defies the Darkness' and all that stuff about the good gods versus the bad gods. He has his fingers all in the black market. Where you're from the church is just kind of quaint, but it's serious business out here. It's the only thing linking everyone together – belief."

I paused. "So you're saying he's a zealot?"

"No, it's just…gah, this isn't gonna stop you, I guess. Make up your own ideas when you meet him. He's not some nice church preacher who talks about how we need to have faith in the Light and keep an eye out for the Shadow. Not at all like that."

Fair enough. "You're right. I'll make up my own ideas."

He snickered as we headed into the tunnels, but his words hung around in my mind. Daud was a believer, and I knew little about his background. Had he grown up in a place like this? It'd explain his personality, but I shuddered to think about the kind of scars growing up in the town's worst tunnels would leave. People bustled around us, not even glancing my way as they bumped shoulders and hurried through the narrow corridors. It was dark and claustrophobic down here, and strange, glowing white mushrooms poked through the ground here and there. Most people wore clothes with hoods that cast shadows over the faces. The color drained away from the world in the flickering light. I'd imagined Redhammer as deafening, mirroring the din of the Mudder. I was met with something far different: It was a strange sort of loud in here, noisy not like a bar but like an anthill, drowning my thoughts in the brown cacophony of scuffling feet and brushing shoulders.

District 5 didn't seem so well-off all of the sudden. A girl like me could go a lifetime without stepping foot in here. For these people, this was routine.

After what seemed like a dozen switches and turns in the tunnels, we stepped out into a large, bright cavern. Jagged chunks of brown and gray rock jutted out from the walls, and beneath them, more than two dozen wooden stands ringed the cave. Upon them, vendors hawked wares from dry, pasty nuts and spiny cactus fronds to ratty woolen shirts and pigskin shoes pocked with holes. Everything was cheap, and everything was on sale.

"Got any money?" Blaze asked as we cut through the crowd.

I snorted. "Are you running errands?"

"Not for here. For later. But hey, if you're giving money away…"

People filled this place, their dirt-stained, rugged faces milling about from wall to wall. Many of them were young, a stark contrast from their surroundings. This cavern looked ancient, as if some prehistoric man had carved it out and let it age like wine over the years, letting water that dripped here and there from stalactites build out the place with the slow, methodical hammer of time.

"I'm surprised they let this place exist," I said, keeping my voice low. The last thing I needed was to give away that I was a newcomer.

Blaze nodded at a far wall. "Two off-duty Peacekeepers over there. They partake, too. They just have to be a little more careful about it, since the garrison commander minds it a little more when it's her men who are mucking about."

"That just doesn't make sense."

"How much fun do you really think being a Peacekeeper probably is, Terra?" Blaze scoffed. "If I had to wear armor and parade about like an idiot and watch over everyone with the sun beating down all day, I'd want to blow off steam, too. They don't have anything else to spend their pay on."

Fair enough. We walked in silence as we slipped back into the tunnels. It was less crowded here deeper into the rock, and the tunnels were much thinner: Blaze and I shoulder-to-shoulder left little room for someone to walk past us. The lights were dimmer, yellower, and the rock seemed more imposing the more it closed in.

"Got that money? If so, give it to me," said Blaze.

"Why?"

"Bribe."

"Who for?" I asked, handing him a small leather bag filled with copper sols and silver talents.

He didn't need to say. A pair of burly men leaned up against the wall in front of a splintered wooden door. It didn't look well-fitted: Gaps extended at odd angles in between the door's edges and the rock, and if the entrance had hinges, I couldn't see them. Something queasy stirred inside me as the first man glanced up at us, growled, and reached for his belt.

"Uh-uh," Blaze said, holding out the money pouch in one hand and keeping his other where the men could see. "Just need to see the preacher man."

"Why?" the guard grunted. His companion loomed up behind him, his fists as large as grapefruits.

"She's got a message for him. No worries, man. I'll just wait out here."

The guard took the pouch, shook it, and motioned me forward. I didn't say a word as he ran his hands down my body, feeling for weapons or other danger. Given where he was putting his hands, I think he was feeling for more than that. Still, I didn't say anything. I didn't want to come off as weak. Not here, not where that kind of thing must mean more.

The man smirked at Blaze, nodded at me, and said, "A'ight. Go in."

He pushed me through the door into a room out of place with the shadowy, rocky tunnel. Inside, red carpeting ran down the middle of a long, low-ceilinged room, flanked on either side by rickety wooden bunches. Soft yellow flames flickered from tallow candles placed in hewn holes in the walls, filling the space with an earthly glow. At the front of the room, a wooden stand glistened with a fresh coat of varnish, flanked by a large woolen banner adorned with the sign of the Church – the Sun, Moon, and Flame arranged in a triangle, a red circle in the middle of them.

A door behind me squeaked open, and I jumped.

A soft voice, almost a whisper, spoke, "Coming in through the side door?"

I spun around. A middle-aged man, probably no older than forty, walked up behind me, carrying a lit wooden torch in his hand. His short-cropped brown hair, dull brown eyes, and loose gray trousers that bunched up around his ankles made him look unremarkable at best, but well-suited for this homely abode. His steps were short, measured, and slow, as if he feared missing something as he walked.

"I, um," I stuttered, pulling out Arrian's envelope. What had I been expecting? Someone in charge? "I have a message for Pyre York."

"I'll take it. That's my name," the man – Pyre – said. "Who gave you this?"

"Um – a mutual friend."

"Hm," he smiled. His eyes darkened in the flickering of the flame as he hung the torch up on a wall mounting. "I don't think that's right. This paper, see how it is old and a little more yellow than the kind written on in the schools and markets around here? It's a different material. Cheaper. More often used in District 11, where this came from, if my expectations are correct. I'm guessing a Peacekeeper gave you this to take to me? You are a convenient middle-man, with one foot in their camp and one foot in this district's. That makes you a useful errand-runner."

Something clicked in the back of my head. He was wrong, of course – but had someone, a Peacekeeper even, actually intended to give me this before Arrian had intercepted them? Either way, I had to lie. "Um. Yeah."

He shoved the letter into a pocket. "You fret. You worry about being caught in a lie. Lying's not so evil if done for the right reasons, though. A small evil done for longer-term good is still a deed in the path of good, just as the opposite is true. You should know. My guards might not have recognized you through your face paint, but I do. Is this your first time before the altar, Terra?"

I froze, unsure of what to say next. How had this man known it was me? I stammered into a response, but fortunately, Pyre continued before I could bumble my answer. "That's alright. You're merchant-class. Some of your people are faithful, some of them good people. Other merchants just sleepwalk through life, barely noticing as the Shadow creeps up behind them. You're not even sixteen. You can't help how you were raised, although the future is yours to decide."

He frowned. "Plenty of evil influences where you're going to be working, I assume, but there must be good people in the Capitol. The Peacekeepers have their share of stout hearts. Poor Pavo. It must have been just after he gave you this that that harpy who commands the garrison, Evla, framed him. I saw him at services quite often. A number of the Peacekeepers believe in the faith. Twenty years in the same place and far from home, treated as outsiders and oppressors by the people you are meant to watch over, can leave the toughest of men searching for answers. How they reconcile their loyalties is up to them."

_Whoops_. It was funny how talking to two different people gave me two different perspectives on "poor" Pavo. He harassed my family, and I told myself that justified what Arrian had done to him. At least Pyre here didn't know my part in the Peacekeeper's demise.

"Why did you expect something from District 11?" I asked to redirect the conversation. Really I wanted to get out of here, but I also wanted to know more about this man. Curiosity gnawed at me: Blaze had made him sound respected, maybe even feared, but he didn't look the part in person.

"The Church doesn't respect the artificial boundaries our keeps put up," he said. "Long ago, back before Panem and the Capitol, our faith carried men through the darkest hours of history, when the world collapsed and survival was the arbiter of life. Maybe it was called something else, maybe it had slightly different rituals and tenants, but at the core was the same struggle of the light against the darkness. As Panem formed, the faith took root in several of the districts. 5, 8, 9, even outlying 10 and 11 all kept a grasp on the beliefs that stretched so far before our fall. Our details of belief may vary from place to place today, true, but the underlying foundation of the Church has remained solid in all five districts after nearly a hundred years since the Dark Days."

"Look up there. The Sun, the symbol of our lord that carries everything we aspire to be, goodness, light, warmth. The Moon, that which would stand as a bulwark against the darkest hour of the night, the defender, the guardian. The Flame, that conflict in us all, the greatest and the most fractured of the five lords, that which carries the power to defy the darkest corners of the world, yet also carries such potential for destruction as to render the greatest of towers to ashes."

"The Darkness against all three, and its master of illusions, its right hand, the Shadow," he went on it. "I'd think you would find solace in such symbols, Terra. You emerge from the Hunger Games, a competition inherently pitting one against the ever-present threat of death. And what awaits you? Riches, perhaps. But the Capitol awaits, as well. You know as well as I do that demons lurk there."

"Are you suggesting something?" I said.

He shrugged. "Your mentor, Daud Mosely, has found a place in our ranks. I see him often in the church near the square. This is but a private chapel, one for friends and family, dug out of a former black market storage house. The church downtown, the one with the fire and bells – you are welcome there, Terra. You search for answers even now, don't you? Why was I reaped, why was I forced to kill, why does the Capitol want me…well, perhaps faith can provide."

"Maybe I'll look into it."

He chuckled. "I can see it in your eyes. You won't. You are a skeptic, suspicious of the words of men. But I will give you time. I can wait while you find yourself."

"Now," he said, nodding towards the door I'd come in. "I must read this message – in private."

For some reason, a burst of idiotic confidence hit me. "What message are you expecting?"

"Hm. That kind of inquisitiveness may land you in hot water, Terra. This message isn't for you, and I have concerns bigger than those of new victors."

The meeting left me with more questions than answers. I said nothing to Blaze as we left. _Concerns bigger than those of new victors_…the priest's words sounded as if he were moving pieces beyond District 5, especially if the Church of the Triad extended into other districts. Maybe Pyre wasn't a man with a booming voice or an imposing physique, but he had insight. I was learning that that kind of thing could be dangerous.

What was in that message? Worse, why did Arrian want me to hand it in? This game of whispers and backroom deals had already ended up with me spying for the president in secret and a Peacekeeper sentenced to silent slavery. Every action I made just made me more anxious. As much as I wanted answers, how far into the abyss would I have to go to get them?


	37. The Old Familiar

_**+ Thanks for another great review, melliemoo! All will be revealed in good time, haha. For now, we've spent a while back home in District 5. Time to head back to the funhouse. Sorry for the extremely long delay – buncha things came together for a perfect storm of no time to write.**_

**/ / / / /**

"At least she keeps her word."

Suleiman grunted in agreement. The sunrise burnt in orange and red over the horizon, light poking at the top of the tallest buttes and mesas surrounding District 5. The sky seemed ablaze. That sight brought up a momentary fear in his mind: Something he had seen? Fire in the sky, the clouds aflame – no, nothing he had seen. Nothing he had seen with his own eyes, at least. Others, ancient eyes, had seen. He had only seen the dreams of the dead.

He shook it off. Arrian needn't know his thoughts. "She has upheld _one_ bargain, more on her inquisitiveness than anything. It proves nothing."

"Questions will abound in the Capitol," Arrian said. He pitched a rock off of the canyon top, watching the stone fall down towards the river below. The morning air was cool up here, free from the heat of the canyon and without the bustle of the district's morning workers heading off for another day on the job. "There is no reason to think she will not pursue them there, as well. Any man wanting answers would."

"You leave too much to chance," said Suleiman. "Perhaps I will meet with her, too. Later. Months from now, when she returns for this year's Games. She can forget for now. There are larger concerns than District 5."

"You have news?"

"Little has changed. Disease wanes in Districts 12 and 11, but the pox victims number more than a thousand in both. In the latter, at least, the district commoners will not forget that the Capitol let so many of their people fall to viruses, easily treated or not. They'll search for answers," he said, smiling. "It's a good thing they have a church there to provide them. Faith. The last refuge for the desperate, and such a conduit to turn an average man into a zealot. Extremism breeds like a rabbit. First fervor, then discontent, then violence. And if, say, that message perhaps found its way to _other_ districts…"

"That may take years."

"I am no rush," Suleiman said. He watched the tiny ants moving about on the dirt roads below, oblivious to his and Arrian's presence so far above them. What would it be like to live as they did? To have no other worries besides where the weekly paycheck would come from, to concern oneself with little more than supporting a family? To have no questions besides those of today and tomorrow? _Ignorance must be bliss_. _I carry a heavier burden. An older burden_. _A promise_.

He stood up, brushing dust off his trousers and watching the sun crest the hills. "Things will be quiet for the next few months. We have time to consider our moves."

"How goes District 4?"

"The Peacekeepers' manhunt has stalled. Rio West hides in Manheim's Gulch. He harbors enough of a grudge to form a resistance now, and last summer's events will give him supporters amongst the district's underground. They will take significant time, maybe a year or two, to come together. When they do, I do not expect outright warfare. They lack the power. Terror, subterfuge, those are weapons they can use. When West raises his head again, we can provide for him."

"If he stays unnoticed that long," Arrian mused.

Suleiman smiled. His protégé _doubted_ him. Good. That kind of skepticism would keep Arrian from falling to any of Panem's other persuasions. Only Suleiman had all the answers, even if he didn't lay them out all in an easy-to-follow line. "He'll stay unnoticed."

"You are so sure."

"I am. Rigel Taira, captain-general of the Peacekeepers, returns to the Capitol on Creon Snow's order. I think the new president wants to consolidate his rule now that District 4 has gone quiet. He seeks to keep his top advisors close. Maybe he sees them less as advisors and more as rivals, and perhaps that's why he wants someone new to keep an eye on them."

"What a suspicious little man."

"Insecurity is a crippling weakness," said Suleiman as he glanced down towards the canyon again. "It should be an interesting month for Terra Pike this summer. I think I _will_ pay her a visit in the Capitol. Different face, perhaps. Different personality."

"Maybe the odds are not in her favor after all," Arrian mused.

"Or maybe they are. She's a benefit of fortuitous timing. A new president, an uncertain future for the country, a victor whose public image already plays into the kind of shadow game the Capitol crowd loves so much. She'll be able to get away with a lot if she's savvy. I don't like missing opportunities."

"Plenty of those to go around soon, I think," said Arrian. "What's next?"

Suleiman scratched his chin and frowned. "District 12, I think, until the Games. There is a widow there, her husband and daughter victims of the pox. She's a good hunter, she has a strong voice amongst their working class and a longstanding grudge against the Capitol – and now, far less to lose. Let's see what we can make."

**/ / / / /**

Weeks passed into months, winter into spring, sunrise to sunset to sunrise again. Routine won over my doubts over Pavo's demise, Pyre York's words, and my concerns over what awaited in the 97th Hunger Games. Throughout the spring my mind wandered and my spirit relaxed. I called Blaze a friend, and I threw aside my hesitations and rekindled my sibling relationship with Flint, even if I couldn't tell him what I'd done for the family.

For a few months life regained its luster. Simplicity and the comfort of my newfound wealth (and Finch's insistence on taking care of me to the point of stifling) eased my worries. I knew it was all on borrowed time, but for a brief stint, I didn't care.

It had to end. Come the start of summer, it did.

The clap of thunder and a knock on my door woke me on the morning of the 97th Hunger Games's Reaping.

"Open," I half-yelled, half-grumbled at my bedroom door. As usual, District 5 wouldn't choose its tributes until the mid-afternoon. I had all day to stew. The last thing I needed was Finch bugging me about how to show up.

A tromp of footsteps answered me. My bedroom door swished open, revealing my brother, a basket under his arm and a frown on his face.

"You should lock your door, sis," said Flint, rolling his eyes as I bunched up the blankets to hide from the world.

I grunted in disagreement. "Because demons will get me."

"It's just good to do. You should get up earlier, too."

"I get up early when I have to work."

"You don't have to work."

"I get up early when I choose to work."

He sighed. "I brought you breakfast."

I rubbed my eyes and rolled over. "Shouldn't you be, like, getting ready or something?"

"Why bother?" he said, his voice dropping off. "I don't really care if I look fancy for the Reaping."

"You should. All the cameras – "

"So now you care about what the cameras see, sis?"

"No, it's just…Flint, you still have today and two more Reapings before you're done. Just because I got through doesn't mean you won't get picked, and then if that happens, I don't know if I can really do anything to – "

He hurried forward and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. "Hey, I'm not going with you today. I'm gonna be right here. 'Kay, Terra? You have enough on your plate. Don't worry about me."

I shook my head and buried my face in my hands. This was stupid. The Capitol awaited with an untold number of new challenges, sure, but I shouldn't have needed Flint to console me. I was alive, a victor, whereas he was still a potential tribute. I'd be right here with him if last year hadn't happened, waiting with all the other sixteen year-olds in the square. He was facing death. I was facing…what?

_You're facing mentoring your own brother for death_, a sadistic little voice in the back of my head said. True. That, plus whatever Snow and the other Capitolians had in store.

"You should probably go and get ready," I murmured.

Flint backed off of me. "Terra," he said, his voice soft and hesitant. "Can you talk to me?"

I glanced up at him, bit my lip, and shook my head. It was just a little thing, just a flick, but it was enough to cast a pallor over his expression and darken the glow in his eyes. He nodded, but I could see he didn't accept it. Maybe he did on the surface, but underneath it all, he didn't _want_ to.

It didn't matter. I knew things he didn't. I understood possibilities he couldn't. That knowledge spanned a gorge between us, and I couldn't bridge it even if I wanted to.

As soon as Flint left, I regretted that I pushed him away. The lonely house whispered of fear, all red and black in the potential disasters that lay ahead in the Capitol. I built a nest of bed sheets and hid. Around me in the yawning emptiness, thoughts of the failures I could endure circled and cawed. Both tributes dead in the bloodbath. A girl dying, a long, slow, and angry thing. A boy in a pine box, pieces of him stitched together as best as the doctors could manage. Creon and the Capitolian elite, telling me I'd failed in my duties, assuring me I'd never see Flint or anyone else I knew ever again.

Gray emptiness – forever.

My next visitor didn't knock. As I buried my head in my pillow, desperate to keep my thoughts at bay, a loud "Terra?" echoed from downstairs.

"Up here," I moaned. Finch. Bad timing.

Boots tromped up the stairs. "Are you…oh," said my mentor, poking her head in my bedroom. "Oh boy."

I balled up a blanket into my face and turned away. "Hey," she said. I shuddered when she put a hand on my leg, and she pulled it away. "What's wrong?"

I grunted. "Can you get out of bed and get dressed?" Finch said, changing tactics. "We only have about an hour."

"I know."

Awkward silence hung in the air. "Look, I get what you're feeling," she said.

"How could you?" I spat, ripping the covers off my face. Fear boiled over into rage, my emotions bubbling over to burn anything in the way. "You act like you know everything! It's been twenty years since you were in my place. You said it yourself. You gave up on getting a victor out. How could you even remember what this is like?"

She sighed and pursed her lips. "Okay. I…yeah. I don't mean I know everything you're feeling. We're different people. I never really thought much about being alone when I was a kid, and all the downtime of being a victor didn't bother me much during those first few years. When I said that I didn't think I'd ever get a victor out of the arena, though, I didn't mean I'd given up, Terra. All those years I felt guilty. I still hoped, even if it seemed dumb. From where you're sitting it probably does make me look stupid: I never had any siblings, didn't really have any friends or any of that as a kid. I didn't have anyone who was at risk of the Games once I'd won. Yeah, you never can get both of your kids out of the arena, so there's that. There's always a little heartbreak. But I think I can at least understand what you're thinking as far as the Capitol goes."

"Psh," I snorted. "Sure."

"You never met the old president," she said, looking off into the corner of the room. Spider webs hid in the shadows behind my dresser. "His kid seems like a reasonable man, but the old Snow was a lot different. He didn't tell me anything until the Third Quarter Quell, and then he dropped the bombshell. I was your age, thought I was smart. He just saw a girl people would pay for, and not because of anything in my head. I just…I know there's bad things in the Capitol, Terra. I know a lot of people don't have good motivations there."

I watched in silence as memories flashed in her face – sad ones, angry ones. For a moment, Finch looked much older than she was, her face streaked with remorse for things she once did at an old man's command. Why didn't she have the same marks that scarred Daud so visibly?

"Are you still…" I trailed off.

"No," she said. "No one there wants a woman like me in her mid-thirties. Just, if you need to talk about any of this, I want you to know you can talk to me, okay? I don't want you to bottle it up. I saw what happened to Daud and me when we both did that."

I paused, hesitant to say what I knew. Creon didn't seem the lecherous type, but one meeting with the man didn't mean I could trust his every word. He still allowed the Hunger Games to run, after all, and what did one girl like me mean when he could toss aside twenty-three other kids every year? "I don't know if that's what they want from me," I said.

"Well, whatever they want, whatever happens, you don't have to go it alone. You can tell me anything, alright? Now why don't you go get dressed? We have a long day ahead."

The streets already were packed by the time Finch led me from the Victor's Village. Dry lightning crackled overhead in the thick cloud cover. Rain was a rare occurrence in District 5, but these dry, dusty lightning storms were a familiar sight. The dark gray skies seemed like a bad harbinger by the time Finch and I ran into Elan behind the Justice Hall. My escort looked gloomy, his hair wetted down and dyed midnight black.

"An important day for you," he said, glancing my way as the crowds gathered on the side streets in front of the dozens of screens that covered the day's events. District 5 was far too large to fit everyone in the city center, and the Capitol's workers had been at work all week setting up the preparations for the Reaping. "First time as a victor. Your dress is lovely, by the way. A slice of normalcy before Rhea turns you into something alien."

My dress wasn't anything special, merely a green, polka-dotted thing Finch had ordered from the Capitol. It paled in comparison to the bright blue suit Elan wore. The cloth almost sparkled despite the gloomy skies above. "You, um…look good, too," I said.

"Furnished by the Gamesmakers," he replied, picking at his suit as if it were diseased. "I understand fashion, Terra, and I hate every inch of the subject. It's a necessary evil for a man in my position. Or a woman in yours, I suppose."

"I thought most escorts liked fashion."

"Mm. Some do. Effie Trinket certainly does."

"But not you?"

"No. I don't like to sparkle."

I couldn't argue with that, but I didn't have much time to debate the subject. Time ran quickly, and Finch hurried me through the Hall to the stage. I'd been here just a year ago, down in the square where hundreds, thousands of children now stood. They milled about, some chatting, most quiet and lost in their thoughts, watched over by Peacekeepers and crimson banners and the cameras, the sentinels that watched our every move for the public's entertainment. It all seemed so different from up here, facing down on where I'd once stood. The brown and tan brick buildings melted away as I looked over the scene, blending in with the high red rock walls of the canyon beyond. Only those faces remained, so many mournful, so many fearful. What must they think? _District 5 just won. If I'm picked, I have no chance_. Perhaps, _Please not my sister or my brother. It's alright if I'm taken, but not them_. Or, _Not this year. I can go next year, but Dad just died and I need to help out for now. Not this year_.

So many concerns I couldn't help assuage. Maybe it was that that I feared so much – not what awaited me in the Capitol, but awaited those I couldn't help. I could withstand my own fate, bear it with whatever strength I had. For whoever the poor boy and girl picked to travel to the Capitol with Finch and Daud and me this year, however, I could do little but offer encouragement and try to pick up sponsors. I was powerless beyond that.

Disturbing.

Daud slouched down in a chair as Finch and I took a seat to the side of the stage. "Late to the fun already," he grunted.

"What's happened so far?" Finch asked.

"The mayor called Elan an idiot. Elan answered him with some flowery words. Then a bunch of kids filed in. I never would've guessed."

I scanned the crowd as Finch and Daud bantered. I couldn't find Flint in the crowd. Really, I shouldn't have been so worried: The chances that any one of the kids in front of me were Reaped were tiny. But if the Gamesmakers wanted Flint Reaped, I knew it would happen. _I wanted the boy from District 3 to win_, Creon had said. So much for random chance.

"Our glorious host," Daud grunted as Elan emerged from the Justice Hall. "At least they don't play their special videos anymore. D'you remember when they did that?"

"Ugh," Finch groaned. "'A widow, a motherless child…' yeah, those were fun. When did they stop those?"

"'84? Maybe a few years later. Been a while. We're gonna be old soon. Terra will have to remind us when our memory goes."

"I'll just laugh at you," I said.

"Damn kids."

Everything seemed to rush forward as soon as Elan started speaking. It hadn't moved this fast when I'd been down there in the crowd, but it seemed no sooner had I taken my seat than he was fishing around in the girls' Reaping bowl. Out came Elan's hand, and with it, a single slip of paper. Upon it, a name – and most likely, a dead girl.

"Marigold Ellis," read Elan.

I couldn't blame the girl when she broke into tears. Marigold shuffled out of the fifteen year-olds' section, clad in a dull yellow dress and with a bright blue ribbon in her hair. It was the only bright thing about her: Marigold's face sunk as Elan called her forward, and her blonde hair seemed to sink a shade or two as she trudged ahead towards destiny. She was small, smaller than me when I'd been called from those very same ranks to fight. I wanted to rush out of my chair and tell her things would be okay, that I'd succeeded from that very same beginning, but I couldn't. I didn't know her. I'd sound no better than Finch and Flint earlier, telling me everything would be okay. I knew better than that.

To his credit, Elan was efficient. No sooner had Marigold reached the stage than he was digging around the next Reaping bowl, giving the cameras as little time to focus on the girl's tears as possible. It was a small blessing.

"Fenton Renner," called Elan.

My thoughts changed with Fenton. He was a boy who seemed…capable, if nothing else. Stepping out of the eighteen year-olds' section, red-haired Fenton was a big, mature kid. He looked more of an adult than I did, by any glance – and his broad shoulders and sharp jawline made him a looker. He didn't shed a single tear walking up to the stage, and despite the grim way he frowned as he shook Marigold's hand, I couldn't help but let my imagination get the better of me. He looked the part of a fighter.

_Gods, _I thought. _This is probably the same kind of thing Daud thought of you last year. "Terra. She looks pathetic._"

One thing relieved me: My brother wasn't up for death. Neither was Blaze, although I figured he was too old for the Reaping – I hadn't seen him amongst the crowd, and he'd never clarified just how old he was. Come to think of it, he hadn't told me a lot about himself.

Blah. Stupid thoughts. I had two kids, two _real_ tributes, to think about now. No longer was I the only life on the line. The 97th Hunger Games were underway, and I couldn't let myself be sidetracked. People were counting on me now.


	38. Out of Options

_**+ Thanks again for the great review, melliemoo! Thanks all for sticking with me through 30-odd chapters so far! Much more to go, and the 97**__**th**__** Games are getting a-going. This chapter was a bit of a slog to write, but we're laying the groundwork for what comes next.**_

**/ / / / /**

This place was familiar, but not from where I was standing.

Time had stood still since six months ago in the lounge car aboard our train to the Capitol. Light still shimmered off of a dozen chrome platters, glimmering all about the cabin in the thousand shades of the rainbow. Blue velveteen carpeting muffled my nervous, heavy footsteps, softening their stomps into whispers. Flaky pastries glistening with eggwhite cream and bright tangerines sneered at the red rocks of District 5 outside the window. Opulence had come to tear me away from six months of sleepwalking, but the shadows cast by the overhead chandelier's hundred bulbs seemed so much more threatening this time.

Finch looked tired already. "You're just gonna make it feel worse if you keep pacing around, Terra," she said, running a hand through her hair for the hundredth time. "Sit down and eat something. You're going to think clearer if you're not hungry."

"Let her get it out," countered Daud, his feet propped up on the once-spotless silver table in the middle of a circle of chairs and couches, his beard more unkempt than I remembered. "Just gonna make it worse bottling it up."

"It's – "

"Normal. Yeah," Daud finished for her. "Don't even know why I'm here to explain it with two of you this year."

Finch sighed. From the way she rolled her eyes, I figured this was something she'd explained to Daud a number of times already. "Same as in '75. It's her first year, so you and I have to do most of the legwork still. She's gonna be busy with all the media people and whatnot."

"Rhetorical question," Daud said, picking up a pastry and pulling it apart layer by layer. "Didn't need to answer."

"You asked. What are you doing?"

"Making a mess."

"That's a really good example for Marigold and Fenton."

Daud pointed a finger at me. "She got over it."

_They should get a room_, I thought. Our screwed-up family became more of a reality with every argument those two had.

They didn't have long, however: Within a few minutes, Elan stepped through the open door to the lounge car, the two unlucky ones behind him. They looked shell-shocked in their own ways: Fenton's guard seemed to have slipped, his eyes red and his cheeks pale and worn, as if he'd scrubbed at them to toughen up before coming face-to-face with us. Marigold, on the other hand, hadn't bothered to conceal her fears: She looked exhausted, her emotions having already gotten the best of her, her blonde hair now tangled and knotty and her face scoured with sweat.

For a moment we stood off, mentors and tributes, survivors and victims, silence a gorge between us. Finally, Elan stood in: "Introductions, perhaps. Marigold Ellis and Fenton Renner, these are – "

"I know who they are," Fenton interrupted him. "I think she does, too." Marigold paused a second, and from a prompting glance from Elan, nodded without a word.

Elan smiled. "Short introductions this year."

"Tell you guys what," Finch cut in, breaking the awkwardness as the train lurched to a start. "Why don't you two freshen up, alright? You've both got private rooms – Elan, you can show them where – and you might as well take a few hours to do what you need to do. We can get to know each other better over dinner, okay?"

"Fine suggestion," Elan said before either Fenton or Marigold could get a word of dissent in. "Come. Back this way."

Marigold eyed me as she walked past. I felt bad for doubting her – not because I was wrong, which I had a sinking feeling I wasn't, but because it felt heartless of me to strategize and prioritize before I even got to know either of these two as _people_. I was falling into the very trap I didn't want to succumb to without knowing it.

The door to the compartments hissed shut as the train bucked. In just a few short minutes, District 5's outer perimeter whizzed past the windows, fading into the red desert and out of sight. Ahead was only sand and rocky outcroppings as the desert stretched on for hundreds of miles. Somewhere far ahead lay the Capitol in all its gilded glory, but I had a lot more to worry about between now and then.

"That was a bit awkward," I mentioned at last.

Daud grunted. "Always is. Not so easy to say, 'You're gonna die. Deal with it.'"

"Let's not start with that thinking," Finch said, glaring at Daud. "I'm gonna go check on when we're supposed to get in tomorrow. You two just sit tight. Terra, don't let him get to you."

Daud rolled his eyes. As soon as she was gone, he said, "Self-righteous tit."

"She's probably right," I said, slumping down into the couch across from him. "If our two kids see us acting like we think they're dead already – "

"They are dead already."

"You don't even know anything about them."

"Easy for you to say," he said, pouring wine into a gold-rimmed goblet until it splashed over. "You win and you're so full of confidence. Life hasn't beaten you down yet. You haven't had a dozen kids look you in the eye and say, 'Teach me how to survive.' You haven't learned how to tell them it's all futile."

"Yeah? I did it."

"Everyone gets lucky."

"Maybe we will this year too, then."

"Fat chance. I won in '72, girl. Two victors since then, and one was more than twenty years ago. Even if one of them wins this year, what d'you think the chances are of winning again after that? Better get used to it."

"Is that what makes you so bitter?" I asked, welling up a gut of boldness. "You lose so many times and you just resign to losing?"

He laughed. "Bitter?"

'That's all you talk about. Losing. Dying. You're just wallowing in it."

"And what's there to revel in?" he said. "Show me what's beautiful about the world. Go on."

"Well, friends and family – "

"Neither. Go on."

"You go to the church, don't you?"

"You think I'm there for friendship?" he cackled, throwing back his goblet of wine. "I want a little solace, that's it. Nothing's gonna answer me when I ask what pushed me to kill that girl in cold blood. Murder. That's what I did in the 72nd Games to my own district partner. You think you had it bad killing the boy, Glenn? Mercy kill. I gunned down my partner in cold blood. Why? I needed to survive at any cost. Selfish reasons. Didn't care then. Didn't know there wasn't much of a future to look forward to then, either."

I paused, struggling for a comeback. It wasn't often I got Daud out of his shell, much less even learned a bit of his past. "Daud, you've done fine. You got Finch out of the Games alive, and she helped with you to get me out – "

"Wonderful," he snorted, taking another drink. "The cycle continues. When I'm not killing people, I'm helping others kill people. Best of all, I don't have much of a choice in it. All because the odds were in my favor, right. Should've listened to the boy last year. I heard what he believed in. He probably had it right."

For a moment I couldn't say anything. Here was Daud, a victor who was successful by any measure: Not every victor could vouch for having brought out multiple victors themselves in such a short time. Here he was, telling me Glenn, who thought death preferable to winning – or even just _living_ – was right.

Suddenly, I had a burning desire to go ask Elan just what it was that Daud had done to get me sponsorships last year.

"Give me that," I said, snatching the pitcher of wine from his side of the table.

"Might as well get started early. D'you regret it?"

"Regret what?"

"Killing him. The boy. Glenn."

I frowned at him. "No. He was suffering. He didn't deserve it. It was…you said it. Mercy."

He snorted. "You don't really believe it. I see it in the way you look at me. You should. Not for his sake, but your own. We're bathed in riches for surviving. Time passes, and after a while, dying honorably seems a lot more noble than living to be used for the rest of your life. There's no honor in that."

"What do they make you do?" I said, downing half of my goblet in one swig. "The Capitol. The president. The old one had requests, huh?"

Daud raised an eyebrow and polished off his drink. "Knew they'd get to you. All popular. Dark and mysterious. Well, they make me do what I'm good at. I'm guessin' they asked the same of you. Everything for money and power. Happy memories be damned."

Finch's return cut off our conversation, but I couldn't force Daud's opinion out of my head throughout the afternoon. The way Marigold looked at me, the way Fenton spoke with such resignation, they ate away at my confidence as dinner approached. What hope did I really have of getting either of them out of the arena this year? District 1 had won back-to-back victors just a few years ago, but what were the chances that it would happen again, and to District 5, of all places?

Arrian de Lange's words stung my thoughts. _I can help you_, he'd insinuated. _For a price, I can give you what you want_. The offer seemed so much more tempting.

Doubts ran through my head by the time dinner rolled around. The steaming platters of food didn't help alleviate my fears, even with the chinaware loaded with steaming meats and moist, warm vegetables. Red, sizzling, crackling seafood urged me to forget my fears of what lay ahead. A bowl of crisp greens teased me with the delicacies the Capitol offered. _Tributes?_ It questioned, each spear of asparagus and head of broccoli teaming with steaming dew. _Who cares? You're doing well. _

To their credit, Fenton and Marigold were handling themselves better than I'd expected. Fenton seemed to have put the Reaping behind them, and when he showed up to dinner, he looked no different than any other teenage boy – sullen, indifferent, and tough. Marigold wasn't so bold, but she was at least answering questions.

Daud and I pushed the jug of wine at each other as Finch questioned them. "So," she said, "You guys figured out the showers alright, I guess."

"We're not watching the other Reapings?" Fenton asked, picking at a plate full of beef and pork.

Finch shook her head. "Don't worry about the other kids 'til tomorrow. Right now, I just want you all to be comfortable. Tough day, I know. Last thing you need to think about is what's ahead."

Marigold shot me another glance, but I responded only by downing the last of my goblet of wine. Maybe Daud was on to something. This was good stuff. It made me feel nice.

"Still in school, Fenton?" Finch asked, moving away from the "Hunger-Games-y" aspect of things. She had a knack of this. "I dropped out a little early. I can't remember what the age cut-off is."

"Nah," he said, pawing at a slice of beef. "I'm eighteen. Solar arrays now. Just making money."

Finch shot me a glance, but I just shrugged. I didn't know him. There were a lot of solar panels providing power, many more than just the ones I watched over to keep me from dying of boredom. "Yeah?" she said. "That kinda experience might come in handy."

"Yeah, sure."

"Did for her. That's Terra's line of work," Finch said, nodding at me. I felt heat flush my face as Fenton raised an eyebrow and stared.

"Not really. Coming in handy, I mean. I do it. Did it," I stammered.

Fenton snorted and returned to his plate as Finch shot me a nasty look. I wasn't lying. Fixing solar panels had nothing to do with stabbing teenagers and beasts. Fenton had to be smart enough to figure that out, and Finch's feel-good rhetoric wasn't helpful.

In my defense, Daud smirked. To keep the peace, I turned the conversation towards are quiet other tribute: "You're probably still in school, huh, Marigold?"

"Mari. And yeah," she said, stirring her fork through a mush of something that had once been potatoes and gravy but now looked like a sea of gray slime. "None of them came to say goodbye."

"They're probably just a little shocked. Don't let that get you down," said Finch.

"Or they're happy they're not dead for another year," Daud added. "Happy you weren't picked last year, Fenton? Terra here woulda been the death of you."

"That's not really fair," I said, setting my fork down and slumping back in my seat. "I didn't – "

"Nothin' about it's fair. It just is," Daud countered before I could finish. "If you two want to know what you're up against, look at each other and know that either you're dead, or the other one is. Or you both are. No going around it."

Finch looked ready to murder him. "Daud…"

"Might as well be honest," he said, taking a long drink.

Fenton looked amused. Mari looked on the verge of crying, and in the middle of it, I watched for what seemed like the first time as anger boiled over Finch's usually calm and upbeat expression. "Why don't you two go wash up for the night?" she said, her gaze never wavering. "Terra, go too. Daud and I need to have a talk."

"It'll be an honest talk, at least," he chuckled.

Mari was gone before I left my seat. I hurried to follow as Fenton pushed past me. The door slammed behind me as Finch rose out of her seat with murderous intent, but as I moved to head to my bedroom car, Fenton stopped me. "They fight a lot?"

"Yeah," I said. It wasn't exactly true, but Finch and Daud were different kinds of mentors. Daud had toughness, Finch nurturing, and expecting them to come together on one strategy to save one of these two seemed a whole lot tougher now that I was thinking about it.

"Great," he said with a wry grin. He didn't seem like the average solar worker up close. Fenton's skin wasn't as worn and rough as the others I'd seen on the line for a while, and his face still had all its youthful curves and lacked the lines and weathering of hard work, even though he was already eighteen. Whoever his family were, they'd given him a decent upbringing, just for it all to fall down.

"They're not that bad," I said, trying to sum up a little helpfulness. "They helped me out."

"From what I remember last year, you got, like, two parachutes. The other kid got none."

"It's not just all that, it's also…advice and stuff."

He laughed. "That sounds wonderful. I don't know how far that went, because it seems like you're just going with the flow. You don't really know what you're doing, huh?"

"Fenton, I want to help you and Mari. I just won last year, and I'm getting a hang of being a victor. I'll do everything I can to get one you back home. Promise."

"Question still stands."

I bit my lip. Now I decided between my two mentors, whether I gave him a white lie in the hopes of comfort as Finch did or laying out the bare truth like Daud. What made me feel better? What had really helped more?

"No," I said after a long pause. "I don't know what I'm doing. Any of it. There."

He shrugged, stopped to look for the right words, and said, "At least you're upfront about it."

I smiled, but the thought unsettled me. Being truthful might have pleased Fenton, but I knew I'd need to start spinning half-truths and lies if I wanted to succeed against what really awaited me in the Capitol. That, at least, I could hide from my two tributes. They didn't need to know how deep this hole ran.

After Fenton left, I hurried down the hall. The shadowy glow of the train car's hall running lights made me shudder: Outside the long windows, only darkness zipped by at two hundred miles per hour. Thick cloud cover veiled the moon, and I could barely make out the black hills and mountains outside. I turned away. I needed to be strong now, not to let my stupid fears ran rampant.

I stopped at the door to Mari's room. For a moment I considered walking on past, letting her have the night to herself to work over everything she'd been hit with. Instead, after a pause, I knocked.

A sniff and a "Hm?" answered me. Mari was backed into a corner of the room when I walked in, her knees tucked to her chest and her face pressed into her forearms. Her blonde hair was a chaotic mess draped around her in tangled knots, the blue ribbon she'd worn at the Reaping holding on to a clump of hair by a thread.

"Hey," I said, closing the door without a sound. "Sorry about dinner."

She looked away without a word. I sat down on the bed next to her, looked down at my lap, and said, "Daud and Finch are like that. They're old. Are you okay?" After a glance from her, I knew the answer. "Sorry. I know it's not okay. I didn't feel okay last year either."

"You won," said Mari, her voice cracking at the end.

"Yeah. But I didn't know anything coming in. You're just as good as I was this time last year."

She shook her head and stared out the window. I could already hear her thoughts: _District 5 will never win two years in a row. My fate's sealed_. The sentiment was hard to argue with: What were we, with only a handful of victors, compared to the power players in Districts 4 and 1? Finch's comforting fibs weren't going to smooth things over for the girl, I could tell. "It's not easy," I said, twiddling my thumbs and glancing up at her. "I, um…tomorrow night's the chariot parade, and you'll see all the other kids. A lot of them are gonna be bigger than you. Most were bigger than me last year. But I –"

"I don't stand out," she blurted.

"Huh?"

"Last year," Mari went on, her voice gurgling as she spoke. She didn't look at me as she talked, but only stared out the window. "The guys on TV said you stood out. You killed the boy early and they said it. Then on and on. You got out of that pit thing."

"Mari –"

"I can't do that."

She looked on the verge of tears. After a moment's hesitation, I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her away from the window. "Hey. It's hard, I know. I know. I won't say it's not. But you're still here now, and you have a chance, okay? Just take things slow. I'm going to do everything I can for you. You're not going to be alone, even if it feels like it."

"Nobody volunteered for me," Mari mumbled into my shoulder. "We all said we would. All my friends and me. We said we'd volunteer for each other if we got picked, and none of them did. Lyla, Rose, none of them volunteered for me. They didn't even come to say bye. They just left."

Something strange gurgled up inside of me. It wasn't hurt or sympathy, but anger – anger that someone backstabbed _my_ tribute, the girl _I _was tasked with protecting. It felt like all these friends of hers – if one could even call them that – had struck not only her heart, but mine. "Mari, I'm not going to abandon you, okay?" I said. Her tears darkened the purple silk of my shirt sleeve. "Whatever happened back home, I'm gonna stay with you and Fenton. I know I'm not used to this, but you're both my tributes, and I'm going to fight, alright? I'm used to it by now. I just need you to fight as well. If we both give it our all, we can both go home in a few weeks."

She nodded as she cried into my arm, but I could tell she had her doubts. I did, too. I hadn't lied: I would fight for her and Fenton, and I wouldn't stop until I had no one left to fight for. But I knew what the road ahead had in store, and it wasn't just the Hunger Games. I was in over my head with all this, between Creon Snow's games of intrigue, the Hunger Games, and whatever else lay yet unseen. I was only sixteen. I was too young for this labyrinth of twists and turns that threatened to choke me and the ones I had to care for.

Unfortunately, I no longer had a choice in stepping away from it all. It was too late to turn back. Maybe Glenn had seen it last year, but I'd been too slow. Now I was committed, and now lives hung in the balance, teetering on the strength of my efforts.

Like Mari, I didn't know if I was strong enough to succeed.


	39. Unknown Unknowns

_**+Thanks another another great review, melliemoo! Yes, I know I have a lot of names that start with the letter C. This became very apparent to me in this chapter.  
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**/ / / / /  
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"Is that it?"

Mari stared out the dining car window as the sun shined off of the first Capitol towers to come into view. The bright, silver gleam was a welcome relief from the long dark, night. I'd barely slept. The lights in my room were too bright, and every time I dimmed them, every last one of my terrors came climbing out of the darkness like so many poisonous spiders, waiting for my guard to fall before ambushing me. I couldn't stop yawning over my lukewarm plate of eggs and breakfast meats.

"Yeah," grunted Daud. He stirred around the contents of a cold bowl of oatmeal, his eyes blank and unfocused. "That's it."

"It's a little pretty."

"Only from far away."

Daud glanced my way as he said that. A sinking feeling nestled in my stomach. He was right: From here it was all cakes, games, and shiny buildings, the Capitol standing on reputation and eye candy. I'd thought the same way as Mari last year, and I couldn't deny its physical beauty. If it had been any other city, I would have loved to have called it home. The mountains still bore caps of powdered sugar, and the pristine blue skies above ran off forever to the horizon without a cloud in sight.

I was far enough into this game to know something very different waited inside the city limits.

It didn't take long until I dove back into the thick of the Capitol's swirling mists. No sooner had our train arrived at the city station and white Hunger Games cars from the Remake Center come to take Mari and Fenton away for the stylist teams to have a crack at than a black, dark-windowed, truck-like car screeched to a halt in front of the station's debarking platform. Daud caught me as I stepped back at the sight of two Peacekeepers hopping out. "Media," he said in my ear. "Probably. Exclusive interviews and the like. It's how it worked when I was a new winner."

The third man to step out of the car told me it wasn't Cicero Templesmith looking for an interview. I'd only seen him once before at the party during the Victory Tour right before I'd first spoken to Creon Snow. He'd seemingly lost even more hair since then and age hadn't let up its assault on his face, but Cyrus Locke carried himself with an air of authority. I didn't know much about who he was, but given that Snow had tasked me with keeping a watch on the people around him, I figured I'd better start learning.

Cyrus ruffled the lapel of his plain gray jacket and called out, "Mr. Mosely. If I could borrow your protégé for the morning? And most of the afternoon? Business."

Daud's hand tightened on my shoulder before giving me a little shove forward. "All yours."

"She'll be back for dinner," Cyrus said with a quick nod. "And the parade before it. Come on, Terra. No reason hanging around."

I turned back towards Daud, but he only shook his head and waved me on. Cyrus threw open the passenger-side front door for me before slipping into the driver seat himself, with the Peacekeeper guards piling into the back. It was cool and breezy in the car, a welcome relief from the hot, sticky summer air outside. The darkened windows lessened the worst of the glare from towers but still let in the sun, making the car feel bright and welcoming. Even the white leather car seats seemed ready to invite me in, forming and fitting to my body as soon as I slumped back in them. The car revved to a pleasant hum as Cyrus turned on the engine and drove back from the station. Then, in a split second, he slammed on the gas, and the engine growled like a great beast taking off at a sprint.

"Truth be told, I'm eager to outrun the cameras before they flock to you," Cyrus said, cutting out onto a wide avenue. Hundreds of Capitol pedestrians flashed past on either side of the road, clothed in every color of the rainbow. A dozen young girls in bright, flowery yellow sundresses lounged on the side of a crystal fountain. "I'm sorry for the circumstances, Terra. I'm sure you've heard enough of people thinking you're lucky to have the spotlight on you this summer."

I rolled my eyes. "You're probably the only person from here who'll tell me that. Besides my escort, maybe."

"Just him, then," Cyrus said, swerving down a side street and veering in front of another car as if it didn't exist. I gripped the side of my arm to hold on and glanced back at the Peacekeepers. They stared out the windows as if nothing were out of the ordinary: Apparently, Cyrus driving like this was nothing new. "None of us in the car grew up here. We're just a bunch of tourists, although some of us have a longer stay."

That made me look back at him. It took me a minute to digest the words: _None of us grew up here_. I knew from Orson, my work supervisor back home and a Peacekeeper himself, that most of the soldiers came from District 2 – but Cyrus's admission baffled me. I tried to come up with something smart to say, but all I could manage was, "Is that why you're balding?"

"I suppose that's the blunt truth."

"I didn't mean – well, you don't have fancy hair or tattoos like so many people here do."

"Always was afraid of needles. Made it a bit hard for all those pre-Reaping sign-ins. I almost had a breakdown when I was twelve."

"Then…you put your name in…"

"For the Games? Ah, not as seriously as you," Cyrus said¸ yanking the wheel to the right and buzzing a group of chattering men on the sidewalk. One gave us a rude gesture as we flew by. "I never trained back home. I grew up in District 1 but wasn't ever going to volunteer. Always had a better chance of seeing the inside of an arena as a visitor rather than as a tribute."

"How'd you get here then?"

Cyrus jerked the car to a stop in front of the towering gray façade of an imposing stone building. A crimson and gold Capitol eagle nested above two mammoth bronze doors, flanked on either side by a quartet of Peacekeeper sentinels. I'd been here before, six months ago – the Presidential Mansion. It wasn't just Cyrus Locke who wanted to see me before the parade.

"I backslid my way into the civil service when I turned twenty," said Cyrus. He didn't get out of the car as the two Peacekeepers did, but merely stared up at the belltower of the Mansion, resting his head back against his seat, and sighing. "Most pencil-pushers from District 1 who get into the service just want to keep their jobs so they can stay in the Capitol. I didn't really care, so I just took any old assignment that opened up. Trying to find myself and all that. I ended up meeting a lot of people. That helped, especially when one of them was name Coriolanus Snow. The whole story's a bit long and boring."

"So now what? You make sure victors like me don't get into trouble?"

"Oh, that'd be an easier job," he said with a slight smile. It faded in a flash, and he shut the doors of the car with a flick of a button. "Creon wants to meet with you. Listen to me before you go up to talk to him, Terra."

His eyes darkened and he lowered his head. "I've known Creon for many years. He's a good man, and an honest one. But I'm not the only one advising him, and for all his effort he's still new to the presidency. A lot of that is learning who trust, and I don't have much faith in some of the others around him. He wants a victor to trust to have that connection to the districts. You can do some real good. Don't let him down."

I stared at him, trying to find his motivations. Cyrus seemed like the honest sort, but by this point I knew better than to trust him at his word alone. How much did he really believe in the president, and how much of that spiel was just him making me think that was the case?

"I'm not going to do something dumb," I said.

He frowned, nodded, and pressed a button to open my door. "The Snow family's been good to me," he said, waving me out of the car. "I would have been just another commoner in District 1 without Coriolanus. Loyalty has a way of rewarding us. A lot of these others might tell you otherwise, but…well, it's up to you on who you trust here."

Cyrus shut the door and peeled off before I could get in another word. As the Peacekeepers escorted me into the building, thoughts raced around my mind. Arrian was right about this game: With each conversation, I felt more and more like factions were squaring off with each other within the Capitol's highest circles. All the shine in the Mansion couldn't hide it, not the glittering chrome and crystal of the chandeliers, not the oil and pastel portraits of old, unrecognizable men and women I didn't know that lined the wall, not even the six foot-tall glass windows that ran up the Mansion's great spiral staircase, filtering in the morning sun through panes of purple, scarlet, and gold.

I felt more anxious as the Peacekeepers made me wait outside of the great oaken doors to the president's study, or whatever this giant room was that I'd met him in six months prior. We weren't here to talk about plans anymore. Now he'd have actions for me to take.

My heart was racing by the time the doors opened and the Peacekeepers ushered in. I didn't take one step before something furry dashed over my legs, making my jolt in surprise.

"Keep that thing out of here," someone called from inside the room. "And close the door."

Creon Snow's hair had grayed a little more, but that was all that had changed. He still stood with authority, his wide shoulders back, his jaw square, and his gaze unwavering. His plain gray coat and trousers gave off the same feeling that surrounded Cyrus, a sort of simple clout that spoke of efficiency with no time for the subtleties that seeped into seemingly every part of the Capitol. If the president played Arrian's Gilded Game, he didn't show it.

"My granddaughter's cat," he said as the door shut behind me with a solid _thump_. "I never got along with cats. Selfish animals. They'll take every handout but won't give an ounce back. Horses, even pigs, they show appreciation. Cats, not a thing. You might as well not exist to them."

I fidgeted, unsure of what to say. "How old is she?" I managed to blurt out after a long pause.

"I have no idea. I didn't buy the animal."

"Er, no. Your granddaughter."

Creon turned away. He cast a long shadow in the light shining in from the stained glass window at the end of the room. The shade blurred and twisted in the twinkling light, a twitching darkness that flickered over the great hardwood table in the center of the room.

"Cassandra's nine," he said after a pause of his own. "We're too busy for each other most of the time. I'll put up with her pet if I have to."

His moment of reflection ended as quickly as it came. He spun back towards me, his face lowered, his eyes centered dead on my own. "I was told Cyrus picked you up at the train."

_Strange way to welcome me back here_. "He did. Yeah."

"Well? What do you think of him?"

Gods, he was testing me already. I searched the president's face for clues of how to answer, but he met me with a statue's stare. "He was happy to answer any questions," I said. "I think he just wants to like someone."

Creon twirled a pen between two fingers, narrowed his eyes, and laughed. "That's about right."

"He didn't seem bad."

"He's not. He's an idealist. Wants a world where we can all be honest to each other, but he doesn't know how that kind of world comes around. I know he doesn't like half the people I keep around me. Taurus, Lucrezia, the Gamesmakers. I can't even blame him."

Creon leaned over the table, still twirling the pen. "That doesn't mean I can put all my trust in him, either."

"It sounds like he liked your father a lot."

"He did. How about you? Did you like the man for all fifteen years you knew the last president?"

Another probe. I nearly blurted out the first thing I thought he'd like: _Of course. We're at peace. Coriolanus Snow made it that way. I'm happy._ I could tell that lie, one that any son would want to hear about a father they looked up to, I imagined. But as I watched Creon's eyes snake across my face, Cyrus's words came threading their way back through my mind. _He wants a victor to trust_.

Somehow, I had a feeling that Creon Snow would see right through my niceties. I didn't have to be blunt about it, but honesty seemed like it'd go much further than a well-intentioned fib. "Mari, the girl tribute I have this year, cried into my shoulder last night," I said. "The Hunger Games are still going on. I almost died last year. Your father didn't do anything to stop any of it."

"I suppose you'll tell me that I'm not doing my part either, then," said Creon. "And you'd be right. But I will put an end to this annual madness."

That jolted me. "What?"

"The Hunger Games aren't something you stop with a push of a button a year and a half into your presidency," he mused, turning back towards the window. His shadow looked much longer now, even as the sun crept higher in the alpine sky. Fractals of light reflected off of the stained glass danced around him. "They're too ingrained in everything to stop all at once. The Capitol loves them. The Peacekeepers rely on them. So many districts revolve around them; hell, District 1's economy has a big stake in them. There are too many moving pieces to stop in any way but bit by bit, little by little, year by year."

My mind's gears ground. "But you can't just…you're the president. What you say goes."

He glanced back, held up his arm, and dropped the pen to the floor. "And who in this city still calls me president when I say that, hm? I wouldn't have enough support to prop up an outhouse."

"My father was a terrible ruler," he went on. "Nothing more than a tyrant. The fist can only keep the mob at bay for so long. Games can only entertain this city for so long. It's law that keeps order, and that's just what my father ignored. Now I'm left cleaning up a fifty year-old mess."

"You don't miss him?"

"No. Even if I did, he wouldn't know. The dead are blind and deaf," he said. He smirked at my expression. "It's a saying in District 2. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. They have a cult that worships death, but for all that delusion, it's a good saying. A fitting one. My father was concerned about legacy and power, but it's not doing him any good now."

"Speaking of now," he continued. "Tonight. I'm going to be a bit preoccupied with ceremony, but you'll be free from the media's intrusions. It's a good chance for you to catch up with your fellow victors. You have a job of your own to do."

I swallowed. Here it was. "I know. And I can."

"See to it. The more you earn their trust, the more you have for my advisors, and me. I can use all the information I can get."

He frowned. "You're an unknown, Terra, but I like that. I know that you're an unknown. I can plan for it. It's all these people that know each other that concern me. With them, I don't know what I don't know. Cyrus. Taurus. Lucrezia. The other victors. Others besides them. Too many unknowns that I might have missed."

He didn't get a chance to go on. I startled as the doors creaked open behind me, and even the president seemed surprised by the intrusion. Through the opening walked the most stunning woman I'd seen. She was tall and lithe, with long yellow hair that seemed almost neon in the light, running down past her shoulder blades. She had much more of a flair for fashion than either of us in the room: The woman was dressed in a bright, knee-length violet tunic, but waves of red and orange seemed to flow through the fabric, forming clouds and clumps here and there before withering away on their own. While she lacked any of the more extreme body modification I'd seen some Capitolians trying on, a pair of flowery green tattoos covered the backs of her hands. She was a walking array of color, more vibrant than even the fractals of sunlight twirling about on the walls.

More shocking than that, she didn't seem to care one bit about stepping in front of Creon's presence.

It didn't take long for me to figure out why. "If you want to see Cass today, hurry up," she said, strolling by me as she addressed Creon with her chin held high. "I'm taking her out this afternoon, and she'll be with her playmates tonight. Just saying."

Creon looked annoyed. "Another day. I've got work today."

"Suit yourself," the woman said. Finally she noticed me, stepping aside as if I'd just come up. "Busy day? Oh, wait a minute. You're the new girl, huh? You're pretty in person."

I bit my lip as my face flushed. "Terra," the president said, gesturing at the woman. "My daughter. Calla."

At first glance, Calla Snow seemed anything but like her father. She lacked his gravity and his serious demeanor, trading it instead for an overpowering blend of charm and confidence. At second glance, however, I questioned my thinking. _Maybe she's just better at hiding_.

"I'll have to get you in private sometime," Calla said, brushing my arm. Her touch was warm and welcoming. "I'll see you some other time, Dad."

"Wait," Creon said, stopping her before she could leave. "Tell Cassandra I'll be by in an hour or two. I'll push Templesmith to the afternoon."

Calla grinned. "Sure."

The president sighed as she left and the doors thudded to a close again. "That will be all," he told me. "I'm out of time to stand around and talk."


	40. Spies and Cowards

_**+ You are an amazing reviewer melliemoo, haha. Every chapter. That's dedication. On we go with Hunger Games-y stuff! Long chapter ahead; if you have comments, suggestions, feedback, criticism, I'd love to hear it! Otherwise, I appreciate your readership! As a side note, if you've read through this far, thank you for keeping up with all the characters I introduce! I know it's a lot. More are on the way. Yay.**_

**/ / / / /**

"It's been a year. Can't they take those down?"

I frowned and slumped against the side of the car. Just like I'd seen six months ago during the Tour, a towering, stylized poster of me hung from a skyscraper just off of the Capitol Forum. It was me, but it wasn't _really_ me: Instead, the Capitol's branded, idealized, dark version of Terra Pike smirked down at the bustling streets through which we rode. Her long, swirling, black hair looked so much silkier and more menacing than the usual ponytail I'd put my hair up in. I was thankful that Rhea had someone else to style this year.

The Capitol _really_ liked the snake theme with me, it seemed. Stylized Terra carried a knife in one hand, the blood-dripping tip of the blood sneaking out from behind her back in the giant picture. In the other hand she clutched a lime green viper, its tail sneaking around her thigh and beneath the billowing gray storm clouds that covered her lower half with a begrudging of modesty. The artists hadn't been so kind with the top half.

_I'll call at midnight_, read neon violet letters across the top of the ad. Funny. There hadn't been many other times to call in an arena where the sun never shined.

"'Least you got company," Daud said, shifting in the seat next to me and nodding towards a similar poster across the street.

The Capitol artists had given Drake Odair a similar treatment, although in my eyes, they'd been a lot kinder with his image. He was tall and bright, his bronze hair shining against a clear sky background. _I rise with the sun_, his message read. At least my tagline was catchy.

"The advertisers are quite eager to use you as Drake Odair's foil," Elan noted from the front seat as we drove on past throngs of Capitolians headed to the chariot parade. The sun had just slipped behind the western mountaintops, and neon green and orange lights flickered on from above the patio of an outdoor restaurant that whizzed by.

I folded my arms and scowled at Drake's poster. "It's cheesy."

"It's effective," countered Elan without a trace of humor. "And it could go a long way for both of you in the eyes of sponsors. Wealthy patrons have been only too happy to snap up all sorts of merchandise advertised by you or Drake – or at least, the virtual representations of the two of you. Imagine how much they'll spend on the Games when you're here in the flesh. Remember what I said about branding?"

_Fine_. My escort didn't have to be smug about his little victories.

The sunset-lit cafes and outdoor shops lined with displays draped in fabrics of all the rainbow's colors rushed past as our car sped towards the Avenue of the Tributes. Ahead, white spotlights blazed stark paths through the darkening sky, flashing and crossing paths above the four-story granite stands that overlooked the Avenue.

"How much time we got?" Daud muttered to Elan.

"Thirty minutes," my escort said. "More than enough time to get a good view."

A good view? "Is that where all the sponsors are?" I asked. "At wherever the best view is?"

"Not getting sponsors tonight," Daud said.

"What? Why not? This is the best time. Everyone's out and watching, and if Mari and Fenton make a good appearance –"

"Which we don't know that they will."

"That doesn't matter. We only have a few days before the Games start. We need all the time we can get."

Elan coughed. "Admirable sentiment, Terra. It's not time that we're lacking, however, but strategy. The strategic player will lay out a better hand in an optimal situation as compared to the one who plays rashly. The best mentor teams use tonight to assess how their tributes present, and to see what branding strategies they can use to win the crowd's favor. Besides, most of the high-rolling sponsors don't want to be bothered tonight. They want to enjoy the ambiance and the energy of the event. Training's a private affair, on the other hand, and three days' worth of it is a somewhat boring ordeal for most fans of the Games. It's a much more useful time to appeal to sponsors before Cicero and Caesar get the children on stage."

Something struck me as he spoke. "Are the other victors going to be there?"

"Yeah," Daud said. "We already met earlier when you were playing presidential invitee. Everyone shows up."

"A few are with the Head Gamesmaker now," Elan added. "Finch and several others want to get a good feel for how Galan Greene wants to lay out his Games. The rest, however, will be watching."

Good enough for me. A plan formed in my head as our car swung towards the end of the Avenue closest to the Presidential Mansion and the City Circle, where Mari, Fenton, and the rest of the tributes would end the parade. Creon Snow and his councilors wanted me to keep an eye on the other victors. I wasn't a fan of playing spy, but I figured the more I gave them what they wanted, the more time I'd have to spend on improving Mari and Fenton's chances in the arena. It was a tradeoff I'd have to make.

After pulling into a private garage underneath the Avenue, Elan led Daud and I up towards the stands. I'd been here once before, but not like this: Where last year I'd ridden down the street behind a pair of horses, the crowd _ooh_-ing and _aah_-ing over costumes and appearances, tonight I saw everything from above. Thousands of Capitol citizens flanked the Avenue, a morass of color and movement beneath a dusk sky of burning red and evening blue. The sound of trumpets and drums filled the air as speakers blared out patriotic tunes. The whole thing had the air of a holiday unrivaled by anything in Panem. It was energizing. I felt alive up here, and as much as I wanted to think about Mari and Fenton, I found myself drawn towards a crowd that thought about something other than me for a change. Tonight, the focus was down below, and I was no more than another spectator enraptured by the spectacle.

When I turned around, Elan was gone, lost among the roped-off area of the grandstands that we climbed. Daud shrugged. "Just us," he said with a grimace.

We weren't alone for long. No sooner had we found an empty row at the very top of the stands – ostensibly cordoned off for victors – than I felt a tugging on my sleeve. A blonde-haired girl a little older than me and a hair shorter giggled and tried to pull me away from my mentor. "Terra, right? Stop being such a stranger! We missed you earlier!"

I glanced at her, puzzled, and looked back at Daud. He grinned, amused. "I'm…are you trying to ask something?" I stammered.

The girl laughed, as if I'd said the funniest thing in the history of comedy. "Gods, you're so serious! Just come on!"

Daud smiled as I looked back again to get his opinion. "Go have fun," he said. "You can worry tomorrow."

Something in his expression told me he meant it, that for a moment his walls dropped and something deep inside clawed its way to the surface. Then, like a mirage, it was gone, replaced by the same surly demeanor I was used to.

"Guy's a bit of a weirdo," the girl said, dragging me into the crowd before I had time to speak up. She hurried me through as an onlooker here and there called my name, hustling towards me before the girl pulled me away and out of view. I barely had time to catch my footing before she rushed me down a flight of steps and further on down the Avenue. "I'm Phoebe. Phoebe Dustin. Why didn't you show up earlier?"

I was taken aback by her bluntness. "You're a victor?"

"Yeah," she laughed. "Don'tcha watch? I won three years ago, girl."

_Oh, yeah_. Phoebe Dustin, District 10. I'd still been busy with school then, and paying attention to a girl doing her best to avoid people on the sides of a volcano hadn't occurred to thirteen year-old me. Apart from the dangerous, lava-infused arena, the 94th Hunger Games hadn't been especially memorable. I _had_ remembered Phoebe as a shy tribute back then, however. Whatever had happened since, something had changed her into the chatty, flighty girl who was pulling me through the throngs of Capitolians.

"Where are we going?" I asked as Phoebe nearly avoided colliding with a man in a velvet cloak.

"Back to the others," she said without looking back. "Quintus wants to meet you. I think Drake does, too."

_Drake_. Great. He hadn't seemed very interested to meet me back in District 4 when Finnick had shown me around.

I didn't get much time to argue. Phoebe pulled me through an opening in the crowd to another roped-off section of the stands closer to the street, flanked by a trio of Peacekeepers warding off eager fans from stepping in. Inside the small block, a young, well-dressed man and a surly-looking woman stood side-by-side, glancing down at the Avenue. The man couldn't have been more Capitolian, clad in an ankle-length green silk cloak and adorned with a perfectly-coifed head of black hair. His features were all bony and sharp, though he was thin, a certain power rippled beneath his fancy garb. His counterpart was the opposite: The woman looked angry and dressed like Daud, clad in a brown coat that barely stretched past her waist and hiding beneath a wild mane of dirty blonde hair. If anything, she was even more muscular than her companion. Her expression was anything but welcoming: She looked like she would rather have been anywhere else but watching a parade tonight.

"Where's Drake?" Phoebe asked as she dragged me up to the pair. "I got Terra. She was easy to find."

The man smiled and sized me up. "Perfect timing," he said in a high voice, his eyes brightening as he sized me up. "Well, not exactly perfect. We have ten minutes or so before this all begins."

"He's getting beer," the woman said.

"I know. Uncouth," the man added.

Phoebe rolled her eyes. "If you watched any other recent Games," she said, waving towards the man. "Then you might remember Quintus. He won in '92."

"Quintus de Ostia, District 1," he said, exaggerating a bow. He clearly was enjoying the introduction. "Saw every minute of your win last year. Just a wicked kill on District 2. It was great putting them in their place, if I have to say. If we can't win –"

"Lyric Sforza," the woman next to him muttered, folding her arms and staring off into the distance. "Same district. Won the year after."

I remembered her. For her cheerful name, Lyric had been anything but pretty in the 93rd Hunger Games. None of the others had really stood a chance.

"Um…" I stammered, unsure of how to introduce myself. It didn't help that Quintus looked absolutely amused by my awkwardness. "Hi."

"'Hi,' she says," Quintus said without missing a beat. "Bit better than you did, Phoebe. I remember you standing there and sweating as Siro tried to introduce himself. I thought you were the new sprinkler system."

"Maybe if my district had won in the past forty years…" Phoebe began. "Just trying to stand up for us, y'know."

I made mental notes. _Phoebe believes in her district. Quintus is a walking cliché._

"You guys have…you've met your tributes, right?" I asked, trying to find something to say. I immediately kicked myself: _What a stupid thing to ask!_

"Met them?" Quintus asked. "Half trained 'em. They're, eh…not exactly the greatest pair of people ever."

"Couple of dicks," Lyric added.

_Well, then._ "You're not trying to help…what?"

"Oh, here we go," Quintus said, turning to me with a smile on his face. "What do you think this all is, Terra?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you want? Out of this, the Hunger Games, the Capitol, all of it?"

I pursed my lips. Was he trying to get a specific answer out of me? "I just…I'm not trying for anything."

"Ah?" Quintus said. "Really? Nothing?"

"What? I want – I'm trying to get my kids out alive. That's it. I don't care about whatever."

He smirked. "That's it. That's what you want, Terra. You want to be someone's hero, the protagonist of your little tale. Sure you don't want anything else? Been a while since you guys won, right? Don't want anything for yourself in the meantime until that happens again?"

Heat flashed across my face. "No!"

"I'm not arguing," Quintus said. "It's noble, really. Unrealistic, but that's not my call."

"Hey!"

"No, I'm applauding, really! We need more knights in shining armor. Too many of us cynical bastards."

"Quintus," Lyric grunted. "Leave her alone."

_Wonderful first impression. _Quintus angered me more since, deep down, I knew he was right. Him, Daud, everyone else, they all told me District 5 couldn't win _every_ year. Even in the off chance that Mari or Fenton came home, I'd be stuck in this same position next year.

I just couldn't let the futility of that realization win.

"Hey," Phoebe said, touching my arm as I looked away in a huff. "He likes hearing himself talk. Don't worry about it. He's just feeling you out."

"Well, I'd be happy to feel her out in other ways."

"Quintus, really?"

The arrival of Drake cut off any response I had. He looked like he'd jumped right off of the towering posters, with his bright hair and high cheekbones. Well, he'd have looked just like the posters if he hadn't had a beer bottle raised to his lips, with another three clutched in his other hand.

"Got 'em," Drake grunted, stepping over the rope, dodging behind the Peacekeepers, and hurrying away from a pair of eager girls rushing behind them. "Freakin' madhouse. When are they going to give us a private box?"

"You could just watch it in the Training Center with all the old poops if you're afraid of the crowd," Phoebe said, snatching a beer from him. "I got Terra."

He glanced over at me, took a swig, and belched. "Huh. What's up?"

"Didn't get me one?" I asked as Lyric took the last drink.

"Didn't remember if you drank or not when I last saw you," he said, shrugging.

Quintus laughed. "Not drinking makes everyone suspicious. I think I read that in a book once."

I bit my lip and glanced back towards the Remake Center, just as the garage's great doors began to open. The man from District 1 didn't know half of how right he was.

I didn't get time to ruminate. Within a minute, District 1's chariot rolled out into the Avenue as a wild cheer ripped like a wave down the road. It was strange, almost out-of-body, watching things from up here. I remembered the exhilaration and thrill of riding between the stands just last year as Glenn and I's faces popped up on the holographic boards flanking the street, the crowds fawning over the costumes. While I'd never been a fan of attention, it had felt…special. Now I was just another onlooker, even if I had a stake in this parade. Some strange part of me yearned to be back down there.

"Boring," Lyric yawned as her tributes waved to the crowd down below. "Bright colors again."

"It's pretty, you snooze," said Phoebe. She looked enraptured by the two from District 1 as the second chariot rolled out of the garage. "How does your stylist do all that?"

"Who cares?" Lyric said.

I leaned forward to get a better view. The tributes from District 1 _were_ pretty: They looked like models down there on the Avenue, each with long blonde hair, each dressed in a flowing violet toga adorned with bright, gem-like lights of green and yellow. They looked powerful in their grace and beauty, the boy in particular with his lithe, muscular build and angry-looking eyebrows. I'd have thought Quintus and Lyric would be happy, but neither paid much attention to their two kids.

"I wish we had a decent stylist. They could at least give me something nice to wear then," Phoebe grumbled as District 2's armor-clad tributes rolled out onto the Avenue. They were less imposing than last year's pair that I'd squared off with, especially the boy. He looked about half the size of Acheron.

"I thought you were from District 10," I said, my mind only half on the conversation as I watched the third chariot rolled out.

"Yeah. Why?"

"It's just…sorry. I didn't think your district would care much about clothes and fashion. Cows and livestock and all."

Quintus sniggered behind me. "Stereotype much?"

"Leave it," said Phoebe, waving him off. "Maybe I'm just weird."

I locked in as the two from District 3 showed up. I couldn't keep chatting: I had to look over the competition and get a sense for just who Mari and Fenton would be fighting. Fortunately, by the look of District 3's skinny, short boy and girl, it didn't seem like they'd be as much of a threat as last year's finale.

_What a hero you're being, judging tributes like meat_, a little voice said in the back of my mind. It sounded a bit too much like Quintus.

"Your two look nice," I said to Drake as the fourth chariot rolled out. I wasn't kidding: The boy was a handsome kid, tall with dark hair and granite shoulders. The girl had a slender lethality about her, and her knowing expression and sly little smile told me I couldn't take her lightly. District 4's stylist had done a good job too, dressing them in shimmering blue body suits that covered a lot of skin but left little else to the imagination. _What a tease_.

"Yeah. That'll go a long way," he said.

"Well, sponsors…"

"Because what those two look like really determines how much people pay," said Drake, rolling his eyes. "I get you're trying to be nice, but try it for a year and come back to me, Terra."

_Whatever that meant_. I almost missed Daud's surly company.

The fifth chariot rolled out of the garage and I left Drake behind. After last year, I had high hopes for Rhea and the stylist team – and as I saw Fenton and Mari, I was disappointed. I had hoped for something powerful to inspire the crowd, but Rhea had dressed them in identical, knee-length tunics that glowed with a sunny yellow light. _Solar power, real innovative_. Everyone glowed tonight, and those two looked boring against the kids that had already come. It didn't help that Fenton himself looked bored, slumping and frowning as the chariot rolled on. Mari was at least _trying_, but her chin shook as she held it high.

"Better hope I'm right," Drake said to me.

I shoved him away. I didn't need him to tell me what I already knew.

Fortunately, the rest of the tributes didn't impress much, save for a brutish, massive boy from District 9. Drake, Quintus, Lyric, they'd be my competitors this year in the arena if Mari and Fenton hoped to have a chance. It wasn't District 5's lackluster showing that surprised me the most as the parade continued on, however. As fireworks and a hovercraft flyover marked the president's arrival above the City Circle, I leaned forward against the railing to get a better view. Creon Snow looked annoyed, as if he would rather have been anywhere else at the time. I knew he wasn't a fan of the Games, but he beat a hasty retreat after what must have been the shortest presidential speech in the history of the chariot parade. Where was he in such a hurry to go?

"Not much of a speech," Lyric noted.

"Maybe he's got something better to do," I said.

"Psh. Like there's a lot else going on."

_Maybe there is_, I thought

**/ / / / /**

The Capitol Science Center was dark and lonely at midnight.

It had good reason to be. The streets were full of revelers celebrating the official launch of the Games, drunk and high and ready to party after the chariot parade's finale three hours before. Across the Capitol, smoky nightclubs were full of patrons looking for a good night, and chatty bettors dropped huge sums as winning odds varied by the minute. _5:1 for the girl from District 1_. _35:1 for the girl from District 5. Place your bets!_

Creon Snow wasn't a betting man, nor a partying man. He was, however, a man in search of answers.

The lowest level of the Science Center was a dark and shadowy land, doubly so when its entire staff – save one – had left for the evening. Heavy white doors sealed off experiment rooms on either side of a great, hundred meter-long, warehouse-style main floor. Secure cages holding test subjects, some natural, some decidedly less-so, lined the back of the room. Muttations growled and hissed from within. A sterile fog seeped in from ceiling vents, wafting over the gunmetal gray floor and flowing over steel tables and workstations. Creon felt like an alien in here, a lone man walking into a world devoid of the life and vigor that animated the Capitol tonight. This was a place of cold logic and numbers.

All except for one man, a single specter in the fog who stood at a workstation at the back of the giant room, punching numbers into a computer. Creon lowered his hood, coughed loudly, and said, "Of course you're here. Some of the others chide you for avoiding them. Taurus says there's a seat on the council for you, but still, here you are."

The man turned. Creon thought he had a decent idea of who the city's best and brightest were at heart – all except for Varno Rensler. The chief scientist kept his cards a secret. _My victor's_ _not going to get anything out of him either, I figure_, Creon thought.

"What a surprise that your guards let you out of their sight," Varno said. "On a night like tonight, when everyone is out, it's such a security risk."

"I manage. A few are trustworthy."

"So Locke smuggled you here. I imagine that's one of the…drawbacks of the presidency. It must be so hard to decide who you can trust when the whole country depends on it. It's a bit of a conundrum I enjoy not dealing with. Here everything's numbers and equations. They're much less subtle."

"I'm not here to talk about your numbers."

Varno smiled. "Of course. Your answers are all about that subtlety, aren't they?"

Creon pulled a small orb out of his pocket. What little light shined down from the ceiling glistened off of its shiny, perfectly spherical shell. "I've spent too long trying to figure this out. Lucrezia can't even tell me where it's from. Months I've looked for answers and come up empty. I'm resorting to you."

"Oh, Lucrezia," Varno said, drawing closer. His white science jacket didn't so much as shudder as he walked. "Spymasters have a way of overlooking the little details when they're technical. I'll wager she thinks it's beneath her."

Creon closed his hand as Varno moved to pluck the orb out of his palm. "It's odd that you spend all your time in here, meddling with your creations. I know more about these beasts you make for the arena than I do about you. It makes a man suspicious of your loyalties."

"It's a shame we're all short on friends. But then again, when everyone's so obvious about their ambition, who can you trust as a friend?" Varno said. "Cyrus Locke, the president's right hand who let an assassin kill him? Taurus Sharpe, whose ambition is as plain as the sun's rising in the East every morning? Lucrezia, the spymaster? Julian or Galan, the men who trade responsibility for hedonism? The choice must be a difficult one. What a shame it would be if the president of Panem was forced into trusting scientists. Or worse. Victors, maybe."

Creon opened his hand, and Varno picked up the orb. "An assassin's mine," Varno noted, twirling the orb over between his fingers. "I'm guessing you're not looking to assassinate anyone yourself."

"Cowards resort to assassination."

"Cowards have a way of surviving. Why did you bring this to me?"

"That was found inside the Presidential Mansion, not long after my father was murdered," Creon said. "The best anyone tells me is that it's an assassin's weapon, and not from the Capitol. My father's DNA is on its needle, and poison's residue is still on it. I know it was the murder weapon. I want to know more about it."

Varno held it up to the light. He twiddled his thumb over the side until it found a small groove in the sphere. With a _schink_, a thin, nearly invisible needle poked out of the front. "On first glance, I'd say District 3," he said, squinting as he spun it around.

"That's what others have told me. I refuse to believe that."

"And you're quite right to do so. District 3 makes a lot of things, but not out of these materials," Varno said. "The needle. I recognize this. It's synthetic diamond, and a kind District 3'a foundries don't employ. It is something the jewelers of District 1 frequently use, but not of manufacture this complicated."

"So you're saying whoever made this doesn't have a problem traveling?"

"Not to those two districts, at least, or they have access to someone of that description. Most likely, whatever assassin planted this, they have a wealthy backer."

Creon frowned, annoyed. "I could have told you that myself. Not everyone just walks into the heart of our city. I need specific details."

"If you want a suspect, I can't give you that," Varno said, shrugging. "But I can say this. Before your great-grand uncle Caro took over, a weapon just like this killed his predecessor at the onset of the Dark Days. It was planted in his hovercraft, on the chair he rested on during long trips to the outlying districts. In fact, it was an assassin from District 13 who carried out that deed in pushing for civil war. It was the instability that followed that gave District 4 the boost to declare independence, which led the other districts to follow suit."

Creon felt a chill run up his spine. "You're saying this is 13? After all these years of our standoff?"

"More likely, it's someone who would use them as a scapegoat," Varno said. "Imagine who knows about District 13's existence. A handful of people here? Less? I think if you want your suspect, you won't have to look far. 13 likely has spies everywhere, but they also had exactly what they wanted in your father – a known enemy, and one who had been happy to let them be. They wouldn't have needed to kill your father, or even have wanted to. But if we consider all the ambitious families here and in District 1 who have circled power for so long…the Sharpes, the Tercios…"

"I get it."

Varno grinned. "Sometimes it really is hard to decide who to trust."


	41. Rivals

"You're up early. I suppose you always are. Although I recall reading somewhere that Drake Odair was the one who supposedly rose with the sun, not you."

I scowled at Elan. The Training Center's fifth floor hadn't changed a lick since six months ago, except for the birds-eye view of posters of Drake and me across the Forum. Mine looked particularly evil in the orange glow of the sunrise as late Capitol partiers stumbled back home on the streets below. Bright confetti and splotches of vomit – or worse – littered the roads.

"I guess Daud and Finch are still asleep," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes and plopping down on a bright, too-cheerful red couch in the den.

"Only Finch," said Elan. "Daud left an hour ago. Attending to sponsorships."

I rolled my eyes. "Great. Glad he told everyone."

"It's not appropriate conversation for everyone's ears," Elan explained with a nod towards the bedrooms. "Victory is a strange thing. It gives poor men motivation and turns rich men into careless gluttons. Other men stop being men at all."

He shrugged, giving me a knowing look. "I should apologize for abandoning you last night. I had my own duties to attend to until the wee hours of the morning. I trust your evening with our two tributes went well?"

"Dinner was quiet," I muttered. That was putting it lightly: Mari and Fenton had hardly said ten words combined over the three-course meal, and Finch had resorted to delving into every unnecessary topic about the Capitol possible to keep things from getting awkward. Everyone knew the chariot parade hadn't gone swimmingly.

"I would treasure your silence, if I were you. You have an interview with Cicero Templesmith in an hour and a half."

That woke me up. "What?"

"Nowhere fancy. It'll be in the rooftop garden right here."

I groaned and planted my face into the couch cushions. "I really don't want to."

"The line between wants and needs can be difficult to cross," chided my escort. "Most wouldn't want to give false hope to doomed children."

I glared at him. "I don't need to give interviews to Cicero to get sponsorships or mentor."

"Oh?" he said. "Then pardon me for asking, but if you pass up opportunities, how do you expect to go about accomplishing these things, again?"

"I'll figure something out."

Footsteps tromped down the hall. "I would figure it out quickly," Elan said, retreating into the kitchen.

He disappeared just as Mari walked in. She looked like death: Indigo circles underscored her eyes, and her blonde hair was a mess of tangles corkscrewing about her face. Her nightgown hung off her shoulders so loosely that I began to seriously consider whether or not I'd need to worry about her starving to death in the arena. _I thought this girl was decently well-off?_

"Sleep okay?" I asked, faking as much cheer as I could.

She shook her head.

"Er…sorry," I said. It was a struggle to find the right words, especially given the pitiful way she looked at me as she slumped down in a chair across the room. "Breakfast shouldn't be too long. Training starts today. Do you…are you ready?"

She shook her head again.

"Is everything okay?"

"I dunno what to do," she mumbled.

"What?"

"Sorry."

I sighed. "Mari. I don't expect you to know everything. This is just your second day here. I was doing this last year and I didn't know anything, either."

She looked away and crawled into a ball on the chair. I silently cursed Elan for leaving me here alone and moved up to her, debating giving her a hug or keeping a distance. Feeling awkward, I split my indecision down the middle and plopped down on the floor in front of her. "I should be sorry, not you. I'm not doing a real great job of this mentor thing. I…listen. You said you had friends at school back home, right?"

Mari glanced at me like I was crazy, but after a pause, nodded. I probably was crazy, but I wasn't up to date on how to console teens heading into the Hunger Games. It was different on this side of victory. "Well, how'd you meet them? You talked to them, right? First day of class, or whatever?"

"They talked to me," she mumbled.

_Welp._ "Well, someone had to talk first, yeah? It doesn't mean it can't be you. Look, last year, I didn't really trust any of the other kids at first, but a lot of them weren't bad. I woulda called a few of them my friends if I'd known them longer. When you go down for training this morning, everything will tell you to try and shoot an arrow or learn about plants or whatever. That's all nice, but I really didn't use that stuff much last year. Finch told me to get to know the other kids, and I did. I just want you to talk to one or two of them, okay? Maybe find someone from District 12 or 10 or wherever who might be shy or quiet. Just talk to them and be nice. I bet you can make a friend, too."

"I saw the boy from District 1," she murmured.

"Well, I wouldn't talk to him."

"He's huge."

"And you can't control that," I said. "Listen, Mari. Focus on what you _can_ control and I'll do everyone I can too so that we can both go home together in a couple weeks. Deal?"

She nodded, but her heart didn't look in it. I looked up just to see Fenton listening in from the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. He rolled his eyes at me and walked away.

Of course, getting Mari home would mean he wouldn't be coming, and vice versa. I swallowed hard.

Breakfast proved to be another quiet affair, and I left early to get dressed for Cicero's interview. By the time I headed for the elevator, Fenton and Mari were already gone.

"Finch is already gone, too," Elan noted as I made my way out of the hall. "And I believe Cicero arrived a few minutes ago on the rooftop. I'd hurry up there, if I were you."

"Thanks," I grunted, frowning. "Any more great advice?"

"Just this," my escort said as I boarded the elevator. "When someone else likes to hear themselves talk, let them. There's nothing Cicero likes more than the sound of his own voice."

The elevator doors hissed shut, and with a _whoosh_, the car carried me higher than I'd been before in the Training Center. I'd played by the rules the last two times I'd been here, never leaving the fifth floor except for training. As the six, seven, and eight buttons lit up with the elevator's rise, I noticed a button I'd never seen before. _Commons_, it read. Some other floor? A meeting area, perhaps?

I resolved to check it out as soon as I could. After all, what could they do to me for a little exploring?

The roof wasn't what I expected. It was almost serene up here: A small garden fanned out just in front of the elevator, filled with all sorts of plants both domestic and exotic. Flowering trees provided comforting shade from the sun, already hot even as it climbed higher in the morning sky. Bright red plumage exploded from leafy green shrubs below as soft grass twitched with every breeze. The city even seemed quieter up here: Perhaps it was still too early for the Capitol crowds, but the urban ambiance of traffic and Hunger Games revelers seemed much less intrusive.

It would've been a lot more peaceful without the camera crew. And Cicero.

"The guest of the hour!" the bright orange-haired Hunger Games host shouted the instant I stepped out of the elevator. He was flanked by two camera operators, each monitoring a hovering gray sphere that shined with light. Cicero looked especially gaudy today, clad in a knee-length, deep violet coat that looked far too hot for the summer.

"I guess," I said, shrugging and faking a smile. I doubted it looked very genuine.

"Come over, come over," Cicero ushered me towards a waiting seat beside a pink tropical plant nearly the size of Daud. "So good to get you one-on-one, Terra. It's a bit last minute, considering I arranged it with Elan only last night, but we can't let that get in our way."

I twiddled my thumbs and smiled. _Oh, thanks Elan_. "It's, uh…it's okay. I have time."

"No reason to be squeamish!" Cicero laughed. "Just easy questions today. Nothing hard, and this isn't live. It's not going out until tonight, so plenty of time to cut out any hiccups here and there. The viewers want to see your face, and we're going to give them a little extra halfway through, as it is. Might as well make things fun! Now, are you ready to get this going?"

"Wait, a little extra – "

"Stupendous! Get rolling, guys. Let's go."

I didn't have time to blink before the two floating orbs shined a pair of bright lights in my face. Shaking them off, I sat up as straight as I could and plastered the best smile I could manage across my face.

"Maybe a little less on the smile," Cicero advised. "Give us some edge, Terra. No one's going to buy the chipper schoolgirl act. It looks unnatural even sitting a few feet from you."

_Fair enough_. I could do surly a whole lot easier, and a little voice in my head chided me for trying to look cheery. _They have a poster of you half-naked with snakes and a knife. Idiot._ I tilted my head back, slumped my shoulders a bit, and stuck out my jaw. "Better?"

"Ah, loads. You catch on quick. Questions, questions, that time!"

He wasn't kidding. No sooner did the lights focus on me than Cicero attacked with the usual introductions. _How are you, how's the Capitol treating you_…yadda, yadda. It felt like standard fare, and while I had no trouble listening to the voice in my head and remaining in Surly Terra character, I had a feeling the interview wouldn't just end with that.

After his fourth question, Cicero dove into deeper subjects. "Enough introductions, Terra, we all know you," he said with a wave. "Don't we folks? But you the _tribute _and you the _mentor_ are no doubt two different things. Give us a little clue. C'mon. Your tributes this year, Marigold Ellis and Fenton Renner…what are you telling them as the Capitol's newest victor?"

I shrugged. "I mostly just tell them to treat everyone else as the enemy. They are, after all. There's only one winner. Not much room for being nice."

"Sage advice!"

"You want me to bullshit them or something?" I scoffed. Something about this felt almost fun. It was acting, sure, but the person I pretended to be growled and clawed for more.

Cicero chuckled. "Maybe I was a bit premature with how you'd change. Still the same lethal victor, aren't you?"

"Why would you think I'd be different, Cicero?"

"Well, some victors have a habit of changing. Take a look at one of your own, Finch Rivers. She was the brilliant winner of the 74th Games, and some say she's now become motherly. Soft, even. How's your relationship with her? Butting heads over mentorship?"

I shrugged. "I think we have a healthy understanding of boundaries. Look, Cicero, I'm gonna take what I want."

"Straight from her mouth!" he laughed. "Oh, I can't wait to see how your sponsors are going to react to that."

"How do you think? I just told you."

_Gods, I needed to thank Elan_. Just like with the chariot parade last year, something about the spotlight gave me a rush, even if it intimidated me so much beforehand. Cicero was lacking on brains, but he knew how to keep the conversation going – and I was happy to pretend to be something I wasn't. It was a nice change of pace from worrying over Fenton and Mari's chances and fretting over how to keep the Capitol's elite happy. For once, I could just say whatever sounded fun, and my host welcomed more.

"Well, we've got a bit of a treat for you all today," Cicero said, turning towards the camera. "Terra here spent a lot of time with District 4's tributes in the arena last year. Keeping a handle on those partnerships was a big reason she came out alive, even. So to get a better view on this, let's take a look at the other side of the coin. Ladies and gentlemen, the victor of the 95th Hunger Games, Drake Odair. Drake, welcome!"

My eyes bugged out and I spun around in my seat. _Gods no_. Unfortunately, Drake came trotting up from the elevator, strapping as ever, flashing a winning smile to the camera as he sat down on a stone block across from Cicero and me. Something told me I wouldn't be able to half-ass my way through the interview with him here – not if I wanted to stay cordial with him, at least.

"It's been too long, Drake," Cicero said, turning away from me. "And the spotlight's moved on now that a new victor's in town. Jealous of Terra here?"

He glanced over at me and smirked. "Nah, I'm not jealous of her. We're different."

"You've probably had your eye on her for a while. She teamed up with your two tributes from last year. Give us a little insight, Drake. What were you feeling when you were watching Terra here tag along with District 4's team in the arena, especially given how long you lasted?"

I narrowed my eyes. Suddenly the fun vanished from this interview. Drake felt less like the partner in crime that was Cicero and more like an opponent, an enemy clashing not just in this year's Games, but in last year's, as well.

He laughed. "Tell you the truth, I was a little more focused on my guys, Cicero. Everyone wants to win. Deflin and Tethys, they were great kids. Best fighters in the arena. Either of them should've won."

"Delfin didn't do a good job proving that," I interjected, rolling my eyes. Heat flared up inside me. Some angry part of me wanted to hurt Drake all of the sudden.

"Would have, should have. It was a great fight between him and the guy from District 2. He didn't murder him as he slept," Drake fired back.

"I didn't charge Acheron like a raging idiot, either."

Cicero held out his hand. "A bit of a rivalry revving up between our two latest victors, folks! Alright then, Terra. It's been a year. Tell us. What did you really think of your two allies from District 4 in last year's arena? Did you really, honestly, look out for them? Or were they just allies of convenience?"

I sucked in my breath and stared Drake straight in the eye. I could tell Cicero the truth. I could tell him I wanted to help Tethys, that I wanted to stay on Delfin's good side and figure out something, anything to keep us going in the arena. I could tell him how I craved another sufferer in the darkness of that arena to stand beside in those horrible hours.

I could, but I wouldn't.

"Twenty-four of us went in," I said, raising my chin. "I was the only one coming out, one way or another."

Cicero wrapped us up there, but I was still fuming towards Drake. That bastard. He certainly had no problem saying what he thought me. Well, fine. I didn't need him. I didn't even want him. He could go on being pretty for all his adoring fans.

"I've got to hurry on out of here," Cicero said as the cameras darkened. "Interview with President Snow himself in an hour. No time to waste, you two. You handled yourselves wonderfully."

That drew my attention away from my raging at Drake. "You're meeting with the president?"

"Not as glamorous as it sounds," Cicero said. "He's too serious. His father was a great interview, but him…not so much. I had a fantastic interview with his daughter just last week, though. I'm looking forward to her party tomorrow. Calla Snow always throws great ones."

"She hosts?" I said, drawing closer. "So she doesn't live at the Presidential Mansion or anything?"

"Calla Snow? Oh, no," Cicero laughed. "She has her own estate. Wealthy girl, obviously. Future president and whatnot. She knows how to make an appearance and keep us entertained. I'm looking forward to that one. Maybe I can get another exclusive with her if I push hard enough tomorrow night."

My mind tossed aside Drake for a moment. Suddenly, I wanted an invitation to this party too. If I wanted to keep Creon Snow happy, I had to understand the man better – and what better way to understand him than to hear all about him from his daughter?

I'd have to figure out some way to finagle my way in.

Before I could dive into planning, however, Drake caught me at the elevator. "Fun, huh?" he said. "Doing anything? I am really not looking forward to sponsorship gathering."

I scowled at him. "Thought you'd want to go prove who should win this year? I don't know why you'd want to waste time on someone who murdered kids in their sleep."

"Huh?"

I pushed past him into the elevator. "Go have fun with someone who cares."

"Terra, relax," he said. "This was an interview. Sheesh."

"Sure. Bye, Drake."

The elevator door shut in his face. Some remorseful part of me rebuked me for being so aggressive towards him. _After all_, it said. _You were faking everything with Cicero. He's right. He doesn't mean it_. _He's just playing it up for the cameras_. It was a quiet part of me, however. The loud, angry part of me told me Drake Odair wouldn't be anything but trouble.


	42. The Other Side of Victory

_**+ Thanks again for the reviews, melliemoo! Not sure how I felt about that last chapter in hindsight, but let's keep the ball rolling. I've been sparse on action lately trying to set things up for later, and blood and violence is to come soon, but creepiness coming in this chapter, heh. **_

**/ / / / /**

_Shiiink!_

The sound of steel grating against steel jostled me from my sleep. The sun hadn't risen over the mountains to the west, but someone in the Capitol was up early on the second day of training. He'd been up for quite a while, even – long enough to sneak into my room, take a seat across from my bed, and sharpen a pair of knives with an expression of boredom.

"Gah!" I gasped, jerking upright and scrambling against the head of my bed and banging my elbow in the process.

Arrian de Lange didn't so much as look at me. "Our victor sleeps in. The day has long since begun, girl."

"How did you even get in here?"

He shrugged. "It is not hard."

"What do you want?"

"So many dead children walking around in here. Two of them are yours," he said. "Or only one. I told you my offer long ago. It still stands. I have talents to sell, and prices to earn. I only need you to ask. Name one of them, either of them. They can go home with you for one of those prices."

I narrowed my eyes. I'd seen what his work entailed the last time, and the way he said _price_ made me think I'd be paying a lot more than I'd get in return. How much did I really know about Arrian, anyway, besides his brutal effectiveness? "Who else are you offering this to?"

"Anyone interesting. I offer different things depending on the customer."

"And you think I'm that interesting?"

Arrian smirked, picked up the glass of water I'd left on my nightstand the night before, and took a drink. "No. I saw your interview last evening. A convincing sort of teenage smoldering for a gullible audience eager to believe, but…not so convincing for one versed in the Gilded Game. A smart girl would try less obviously."

"I'm learning."

"I said the Game is not about what is said, but what is not."

"I have to say _something_ to make people want to speak up."

He took another drink. "Our victor could use _some_ authenticity."

"Fine. How's this? I'll get my kids out of the arena myself. I'm not paying whatever you want to do it."

Arrian sighed and set the glass down. "That was not authentic, either. But I do not force a choice on an unwilling victor. I will leave out the elevator this time. Everyone else is asleep."

A thought struck me just before he opened my bedroom door. "Wait!"

He turned, and I swallowed hard and dove in. "There's something I do want?"

"Ask away, but everything comes with a price."

_Gods, this was stupid_. "There's a party tonight. The president's daughter is hosting it at…wherever her place is. I want in."

He raised an eyebrow. "To drink with Calla Snow?"

"You don't need to know why."

"I do not. And I can get you an invite – if you do something for me."

He sized me up for a moment, and I did my best to hold his gaze. Arrian was an intimidating man in such close quarters: Back home, even in my dusty old house, he hadn't looked so powerful. His hair looked longer, stretching down to his shoulders, wiry and with just enough wildness to seem dangerous. He looked taller than I remembered, and I had to wonder just how he had snuck in here with no one noticing. It wasn't like he was a mouse who could slip in and out undetected.

"A Capitol artist is attending Calla's…party," said Arrian at last. "His name is Rex Rousseau. He will have your invitation, and in return, you will go as his honored guest tonight. He is a fan. You will meet him at the front entrance of this facility, in front of the doors that open onto the Forum at eight o'clock. Do so and you will have your way in."

_That was his price?_ That didn't sound any more difficult than rounding up sponsorships, by the sounds of things. "You just want me to go with some artist? That's it? Why?"

He shrugged. "You do not need to know why."

"Wait, again," I said as he moved to open the door. "How do you do these things? Sneak in here, get invitations whenever, make Peacekeepers into avoxes…"

He shrugged again. "It is not hard."

"Can anyone learn?"

"Maybe."

With that, he left.

I spent all day thinking about what would come next. As Fenton complained over breakfast about spending time at the plants station in training, I mulled over Calla Snow's party. As I hopped from one media interview to the next, practicing saying less and asking more, my head circled around what I'd gotten myself into. I didn't _really_ want to go to a party with the president's daughter, of course. I knew all of about thirty seconds of her. Cicero, however, had sounded quite eager at the thought of the event – and if Panem's biggest media host had an invitation, I imagined many more big names would be attending tonight, as well. It was a perfect opportunity to learn more about these people I'd be spending time with, both to satisfy Creon Snow and my own curiosity.

What else did I have going on, anyway?

Hours later, I found myself standing by the great steel front doors of the Training Center as the evening sunlight died. This black cocktail dress was too tight: Elan had gotten his hands on it for me once I told him where I was headed for the evening, but he must have forgotten to look up my size before he did. That, or he secretly enjoyed that the dress clung to me like cling wrap, even as it cut off at mid-thigh and left my shoulders exposed to the hot summer evening air.

It felt just a little revealing.

Before long, a long, white car pulled up to the front of the Training Center. The windows were too dark for me to see into the vehicle, especially in the waning light, but I had a feeling who it was when a well-dressed man stepped out of the passenger door. If I'd thought Arrian was a big guy, I wasn't using my imagination. This newcomer was huge, a giant, easily six-seven at the least and with shoulders so wide they looked like they could envelop me. His face was eerily boyish despite his massive frame, curved and with full cheeks and bright hazel eyes. Each strand of his hair seemed dyed a different color, as if a rainbow had fallen and splattered upon his head, and he hid his giant body beneath an ankle-length green silk cloak. From beneath the sleeves, navy blue, snake-like tattoos stretched down his wrists and across his hands.

"Ah!" he said, stepping forward and motioning for a burly bodyguard to wait behind. "You must be Miss Terra. Rex. Rex Rousseau. I'm known in a few venues around here. Let me say, I'm just delighted that you chose to accompany me tonight. It'll be a good time, no doubt."

He grabbed my hand and shook it with a vise-like grip before I had time to react. "It's, uh…great," I stammered. "Should we go?"

"Of course," he said. "Uncouth to be late on such a lovely evening."

His car's interior was a piece of work itself: Gold leaf lined the black paneling, and the velvet seats almost sighed as I slumped down behind the driver. It was quiet in here, so quiet I couldn't even hear the crowds outside as we sped by them.

"Quiet the lovely dress, if I haven't said so already," Rex said as we buzzed down the far end of the Forum and headed out towards the city's outskirts. "Did you buy this yourself? Putting some of that victory money to good use?"

I blushed. _Well_. "Ah. No. My escort got it."

"Elan. What a man," he said. "I suppose he'd know about what to wear. One doesn't come from his background and not know how to fit in."

That perked me up. "Where's he from?"

"Oh, here and there. Nothing really to worry about."

Arrian's advice took root. _The Game is not about what is said, but what is not_. Whatever Rex knew about Elan, he was hiding it from me – and I had a feeling it ran a lot deeper than my escort being some ordinary guy off the street.

"So where are you from? Artist school, or something?" I said, eager to keep the conversation off of me. After Arrian's chiding, I wasn't eager to figure out exactly how I needed to answer questions about myself.

"Artist school?" he laughed. "That's not exactly how artistic inspiration comes about."

"Then how?"

"A little dash of this and that. It's more about creation, Terra. When you have your eye on creating something specific, you just do it. Damn the consequences. Sometimes it doesn't turn out like you expected, but that can be a good thing. It's a process that takes some getting used to."

I shrugged. "I guess. It's probably fun to have the time to do it."

"Oh, the aggressive, cynical victor crops up! Yes, it's not probably as time-consuming as what you're caught up in. Getting a tribute out alive from the arena, that must be hard. If you're on the outside."

He scratched his chin and smiled with the edges of his lips. "If I can say so, you don't seem quite like the victor I saw in last night's interview. A little more reserved, quiet. I would have thought you'd have tried to kill me by now, considering your back-and-forth with Mr. Odair."

"I'm not –" I started, but caught myself before I let on any further. "Maybe I'm just planning the deed out."

"Aha! I'll have to watch my back. Of course, here it's not as easy as just planting a knife in someone's back. Sometimes it's the ramifications far away that deliver the knife in the first place."

I eyed him, wary. There was something strange about Rex, but I couldn't place it. He wasn't as artist-y as I would have imagined. "Do you have a lot of experience with knives?"

"The brush is my knife," he said. "But who knows if our fellow guests tonight can say the same? Calla Snow's parties have a habit of attracting the famous. When someone important shows up, it's a good idea to be there yourself."

"I'd be happy not to have everyone gawking for once," I said.

"Oh, not so much gawking tonight. I'm afraid to say it, Terra, but I imagine you'll be something of the low girl on the totem pole tonight. Enjoy it while you can. Some of these people are a little too highfalutin for even my nerves."

"You're not that excited?"

He frowned. "I have business here tonight. I'm here for that. Of course, it's icing on the cake that I can show off with you around. It looks good, you know? Exclusive access to our most recent victor."

_Great. I love being meat_. I expected things like this, but it didn't make it any easier to swallow.

I had to say one thing for Calla Snow: She knew how to keep up an appearance. Her estate was as bright as the sun in the shadowy darkness of twilight, with a thousand twinkling paper lanterns of every color imaginable lighting up her colossal front garden. A smooth cobblestone pathway snaked from the estate's wrought iron gate between towering hedgerows lined with glowing flowers and sturdy, foreign trees that twisted up high into the sky, their trunks like vines wrapping around invisible stands. Behind it all lay the great estate itself, hidden behind a façade of white stone columns and a lawn packed with a hundred partygoers. This place must have cost more money that I could imagine making in a lifetime as a victor.

At least Rex was right about one thing: The other guests who passed by us on the walk glanced my way without a moment's hesitation. For one night, I was just anybody else. As energizing as the spotlight's attention so often felt, I was glad to melt away into the crowd tonight.

"It's fancy, if a bit ordinary," Rex sneered as he led me up the walk. "Calla's mansion isn't much besides some traditional Capitol architecture. She could have gotten better design for her money."

"It's nice."

"If you're used to District 5. When you diversify your surroundings, Terra, you'll understand when things are really impressive and when people are just putting up fronts."

I didn't have much time to stew over what he said. Introductions followed, and I quickly began forgetting names: This man with the graying hair worked in Capitol infrastructure, while this woman was an associate Gamesmaker. This one had met Rex two years ago at an official gala, while this had snuck him into a bar on the bad side of the city. I dreaded spending the entire night as his pet to show off, but after a few introductions and boring conversations full of small talk, Rex stuck out his hand and motioned towards the mansion in front of us.

"I'm afraid this is where I have to leave you tonight," he said, his voice apologetic. "Business, like I said. It can't wait."

"What?" I said, not entirely understanding. Hadn't he wanted to take me around and show off? "We only got here, like…a half hour ago."

"Well, yes, but you have to know how these things go. Time's valuable."

"Do you have to meet someone, or something?"

"Something, yes. Well…yes."

I stopped him before he could leave me. "Should I just go, then?"

He looked horrified. "Of course not! Go mingle. We only just got here. I'm sure whatever's in store for you these next few weeks, you'll need to know some of these delightful people. They're only too happy to tell you all about themselves if you get them to speak up. It's all disgusting really, but what isn't?"

With that, he merged into the crowd and was gone. I pushed past a circle of onlookers trying to find him, but it was as if Rex had vanished into thin air. I was left alone on the lawn, a hundred or more other guests all around me, talking, chatting, mingling as if they'd known each other for years. It wasn't the first time I didn't know what to do next, but I felt particularly lost this time.

_Why exactly had Arrian wanted me to accompany him here? _It didn't make sense.

_I guess I'll go inside_.

The mansion's foyer was a sight to behold. A three-story high ceiling of gold and white marble looked down upon a wide floor flanked by columns, all staring up at a velvet-lined staircase that seemed as wide as the entire fifth floor of the Training Center. Red and gold banners hung down from each column, and violet streamers drifted down from the ceiling as if propelled by lazy winds, blowing to and fro without a care in the world and taking seemingly forever to reach the floor. A multitude of fancy outfits dazzled me everywhere I looked, from flowing blue gowns and tight scarlet dinner dresses that left little to the imagination to black, gold-buttoned sport coats and long pearly cloaks that trailed a good two feet behind their wearer.

I didn't even know where to start, so I found the most familiar thing I could: Food.

It wasn't as if the food was any less dazzling. Gold tables offered up dozens of chrome platters filled high with everything I could think of eating, and then some. Bright, spherical, purple fruits the size of my fist threatened to teeter over into a plate of gooey tangerine mash that foamed and spit. Mint green soup frothed and roiled as it steamed, and gray-pink spiny fish the size of my arm gaped at me with vacant urgency, egging me on to slice off a bite.

A little voice reminded me that I wasn't here to sample all the food, no matter how appealing it all looked, however. I wouldn't find out anything about all these people if I sat around loading food onto my plate. No matter how intimidating the crowd looked, I had to butt into a conversation.

Fortunately, one found me.

A clearly drunk Julian Tercio stumbled up to the table. He was a mess, with splotches of wine staining his shirt and bits of food clinging to his chin. He attempted to wipe it off, missed, and nearly smacked me in the face.

"Hm?" he said, as if I'd thrown him off balance. "Mm. Hello."

I stepped back, fearing he'd throw up on me at any minute. "Hi."

"Hello to this," Julian murmured, grabbing a picture of greenish drink and pouring himself a full glass. Whatever it was, I guessed it had a high alcoholic content. "You don't look like you're enjoying yourself."

"Yeah, I'm just…why're you here?"

Julian raised his glass. "My delightful uncle tells me I should cut back on my drinking and partying. I think he's jealous, but it is good ad…advice. Advice. That's the word. So I've combined the two for efficiency." He tipped back the glass and leaned against the table for support. "I think it's productive."

I frowned. "I thought you were on the president's council."

"What? You think that we – I – can't enjoy myself while I tell Creon Snow all about how much people in this city shower?" he said, clutching his stomach briefly before rambling on. "Or about how much vomit gets flushed down the pipes every day? It's a very, very stressful job. I'm almost invaluable."

He took another long drink. "Much more than that dumb lout of a Head Gamesmaker. I keep looking for a way to get Galan Greene fired, but all I can figure out is that he stares creepily at every girl tribute. I don't know if that's a fireable offense."

_Well, I didn't need to know that_. "You're saying…"

"Cheeks," Julian said, staring into his glass as if it contained some mysterious revelation. "Yours. He went on for five minutes. He liked the one from 4 last year more, I think, but I also think Taurus or Creon or someone told him not to let 4 win for some reason or another. Because they just won. That's it. They did just win, right?"

I swallowed hard and tuned Julian out as he continued his rant. _Because they just won_. I'd known for a while that districts winning the Games back-to-back was frowned upon, but the odds against Fenton and Mari kept growing more and more insurmountable. Could even giving Creon what he wanted be enough to get one of my kids out alive? Was there even a point to trying to curry his favor, or was I screwed either way?

Arrian's price seemed a bit less steep, no matter what it was.

"-because Elan Triste made me bet on you," Julian was in the middle of telling his glass. "What a persistently annoying man. But I made back a lot of money, so it was a good investment, I guess –"

"Can't you find anything better to do with your time?"

I spun around at the sound of a gravelly voice. Taurus Sharpe stood right beside me, his stony frown making me look away immediately.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm doing sponsorship stuff –"

"I'm not talking to you."

Julian looked amused. "It is part of my job to discover why our people drink so heavily! Here I am conducting primary research into this phenomenon, and I have come to the conclusion that if you and Cyrus drank more –"

Taurus grabbed the glass from his hand, startling a circle of nearby guests. "Clean. Up."

He spun around, eyed me, and said, "Walk with me."

Taurus split the crowd as I followed after him up the velvet stairs. "If you want people to think you're gathering sponsorships, you're doing a poor job showing it."

I bit my tongue searching for the right answer. "I…came in with a man who promised to help with that."

"Yes," he said, leading me up to the second floor. It was darker and cooler up here away from the crowded floor below, even as the second-story balcony overlooked the party. "And you were happy to abandon your artist companion not even thirty minutes after I saw you arrive."

"He told me he had to leave."

"So he paid for you to accompany him just to vanish so soon? No," said Taurus, shaking his head. "I don't know what Rex Rousseau is up to, but I'll find out. As for you, you're wasting your potential at events like this."

"My potential?"

He stopped me. "I don't know what Creon Snow's long term plan with you is, but I know that you're young enough and pliable enough to learn how to be a good advisor. You're not going to be that if you're wasting time watching Julian Tercio make a mockery of himself, or embarrassing yourself in interviews with Drake Odair of all people. You lucked into responsibility. Prove you should keep it."

Taurus spun around before I could get a word in.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked as he led me deeper into the second floor hallways, away from the overlook.

"The president's daughter wants to see you," he said. "For what reason, I have no idea, and I don't want to know."

_Whatever _that _meant_. Before a pair of wide gold doors, a pair of Peacekeepers stopped us.

"Only the lady," one of the Peacekeepers spoke up, holding out a hand to halt Taurus. He received a long, cold stare in return that changed his answer: "Hm. Go in."

Taurus opened the doors to a spacious bedroom. A giant, violet-tinted window looked over a bed wide enough to hold four people, its sheets trimmed with gold and red lace. Small jade statuettes lined the walls, some of odd-shaped figures, others of heads that stared unblinking at the door. The décor wasn't as grand as Creon Snow's meeting room, but it made Calla Snow all the more noticeable amidst the dark stillness of this place.

Calla looked at Taurus as if he'd brought something disgusting in. "I only wanted her," she said.

"And here she is."

She frowned. "Fine. Leave us alone."

Taurus didn't move. "Don't take too much time with whatever you're doing," he said. "Templesmith wants you tomorrow morning. Morning. You had best be sharp for the cameras."

"He can wait for me. I don't have to rush for some interview."

"Ten a.m. I look forward to watching it," Taurus said. He glanced down at me, turned to leave, and said, "Miss Snow."

Calla sneered at his back as the door shut. "What a stick up his ass. You'd better be having fun, Terra. I can't stand all these serious people all the time."

I shuffled uncomfortably. Her beauty was intimidating, and it didn't help that she wasn't wearing more than a silk dress that showed way too much skin, both from its sinking neck to the way it ended higher than mid-thigh.

"It's, um…a nice party," I stammered, all of my acting confidence suddenly lost. "Did you want me for something specific?"

She laughed. It was a tinkling sort of chuckle, but she ended it with a husky sigh. "Relax. I'm not going to hang you or something." Calla looked me up and down and grinned. "I heard my father wants to keep you close."

"He – I think he wants a victor's input or something, just –"

"I know what he wants," she said, strolling up to me and brushing her hand along my dress. "He's a suspicious little man."

"I don't –"

"Terra. Come on," she said, bending over an inch to look at me at eye level. "It's not that hard to tell. But it's fine. One day I'll be president. If we're going to work together, we should get to know each other."

"What do you want to know?" I said, teetering back on my heels.

"Anyone special back home in District 5?"

"No."

"Good."

Before I could react, Calla leaned in and kissed me. Paralysis caught me for a second before panic took over. I shook away and stumbled back, almost falling over and grabbing the door handle to brace myself.

Calla looked amused. "You're so tense, sweetie."

Shock tied up my tongue. _What_? For a moment I couldn't think as a million thoughts raced through my head. "I'm sorry, I –"

"Scared?" she said, sticking out her lower lip. "I won't bite until you're more relaxed."

I struggled to keep a handle on my breathing as my lungs threatened to rip out of my chest. My heart thudded, and heat flashed across my face. "No, I – I'm only sixteen –"

"That doesn't bother me, girl. Don't worry."

"No...don't you have a daughter who's like, nine?"

"So?"

Gods. There was no getting her to back down. She wasn't so intimidating now as terrifying. "It's just…but I like boys, and –"

Calla laughed again. "Oh Terra," she said, as if introducing a child to some secret. "That kind of little thing shouldn't stop you. Besides, what are you going to find around here? Some of these creepy old men who will pay you? One of your victor buddies? Drake Odair, or Quintus de Ostia, maybe? I've tried them both. They were _easy_. It was so boring."

She leaned in close again, and I was out of room to retreat. "You want me to find a boy?" she asked, grabbing my hands. "Would that help? I wouldn't mind."

I didn't have any defenses left. Squeezing my eyes tight, I clamped my mouth shut and shook my head.

"Not in the mood?" she said, her breath hot on my face. "That's okay. Taking it slow is like opening up a bunch of little secrets one by one. We can do that. It's more fun, too."

Calla backed off, and it was a feat to keep my hands from trembling. "Be a good girl and go home," she whispered, backing towards her bed. "We'll pick back up another day, hm? You taste too good not to."

It took me less than a minute to hightail it out of the estate, find the nearest isolated bush, and curl up in its shadows with my face in my hands. _Gods, what did I do?_ I'd meant to come here and learn about some of these people. I'd ended up finding out way more than I wanted.

Daud's face seemed so much sadder now, Finch's persistence so much more desperate. I didn't want to face something like this, and especially not with one of the last people I could ever say "no" to.

_Someone help_.


	43. Smoke

_**+ Shorter chapter (relatively, ha.) I wanted to step away from too much politicking/Capitol stuff for a bit before we dive back in. Panem's a big place, after all, with a lot of moving pieces. Again, thanks everyone for your readership! Drop a line if you have suggestions/comments/anything else!**_

**/ / / / /**

_This is the scummy part of District 4_.

Brooke Larson was used to hanging around District 4's underbelly by now, but Nine Rills was a dump. District Four had long used six of the nine streams that surrounded the encampment of tin-walled shacks and open-air flea markets as a sewage system, dumping all kinds of waste into the sludge to be taken off to the sea. This place, on the southernmost edge of the eastern precinct known as Manheim's Gulch, had never been meant to house people. Even District 4 had its share of poor and despondent, however, despite the district's relative wealth compared to most of Panem.

Living here _was_ cheap. It was also horrible.

It was no surprise to Brooke or anyone else that the district's black market headquartered in Nine Rills. The Peacekeepers ignored the wooden stalls hawking fish and sea goods dredged up from extras hauled in on the open ocean, but some things – weapons and, more importantly, words – could only be traded in secret. For that, there was the Blue House.

It smelled of sweat and motor oil, Brooke noted as she walked down the creaky driftwood steps to the massive basement complex. The Blue House wasn't so much a _house_ as an underground series of rooms and stalls, cordoned off by cloth screens and blankets as makeshift walls and illuminated by scratchy white lights that made the victor's eyes hurt. It was dreary, but out of view: Only a single-story hut, its walls flaking with red paint, stood atop the site in view for the Peacekeepers or any other wandering eyes. A pair of descending staircases led to this, and passwords screened out those who didn't belong.

Brooke wasn't here to meet any of the whispering old men discussing dangerous topics, nor the greasy-haired woman in rags peddling her homemade bone daggers. She was here to talk to one man in particular, a different man, a Capitolian of all things.

He was the pale man.

Her guest sat in the furthest stall from the main entrance, closest to the rear, hidden staircase that opened up to a sewer grate beside one of the nine Rills. For a Capitolian, he didn't dress well: A thick, patchwork woolen coat covered him from head to toe, concealing the short, midnight black hair and the almost bleached-white face she'd seen before. He was a monstrous man, twice the size of her fellow victor Finnick Odair, yet he had a strange habit of moving so quietly she barely could tell he was in his stall at all.

"You're not late," the pale man said as Brooke pulled a heavy blue quilt across the entrance of the stall. It was a half-measure of privacy, but it would do.

The victor sat down on a wooden crate across from him and crossed her legs. His conversations had a habit of being long, and she wanted to get comfortable beforehand. "Nothing else to do today."

"Your tributes are in their private sessions right now."

"They're not my tributes. I don't go to where you're from."

He paused. "No," he said after an uncomfortable silence. Brooke hated how he didn't move an inch during those pauses. _If she could just see his face…_ "They're not. They'll die, anyway."

"Your leaders are still that mad about last year?"

"They are petulant people with a habit of throwing tantrums. I have to return soon. Business."

"Any kind in particular?"

"Yes."

_Hm._ Brooke wanted details, not simple yes-or-no answers. Here was a man who seemingly could go anywhere he wanted, even blend into the darkest pits of District 4 despite being from the Capitol, and all he could tell here was _yes_. "Why are you here, then? We're not doing anything."

"What is West up to?"

"Rio? He's consolidating. He's in hiding, guy. Do you think he can just up and start shooting people? No one wants to run out and get into that mess again."

"They will. Given the right motivation."

"Oh yeah? And what's that?"

The pale man slid over a tiny black block, no bigger than the tip of Brooke's little finger. "The Peacekeepers here are holed up in the Presidio overlooking the bay. As long as they have that stronghold, they control District 4. You will not root them out with riots or protesting."

"Duh."

"What's inside this data chip will root them out."

Brooke eyed the block with a wary eye. "What is it? Some kind of bomb?"

"I work in the Capitol. I save the bombs for important tasks," the pale man said. "It contains the technical specifics to the Presidio. Layouts of the fortress. Entrances. Passcodes. Patrol routes. Vehicle garages. Hovercraft schedules. Even the times when trains deliver weapon and ammunition."

She recoiled. That was…no. "Bullshit."

"Leave it if you want. I'll find someone else."

"No!" she said, grabbing the data block before he could pull it back. "I don't – how did you –"

"I work in the Capitol. It took the one who works for me five minutes to put together."

She gulped. _The one who works for me._ Brooke had a hunch the pale man had bigger plans than Rio West's vision for District 4, but thinking about it made her head hurt. "What do you want in return?"

"Do not move any time soon," he said. "Stay underground. Keep West hidden. He's a capable leader, but he's nothing if you act rashly in his name. For now, wait and let the Peacekeepers believe they have the upper hand. And I need you to leave this place now."

"District 4?"

"This basement."

Brooke frowned. "I was going to talk –"

"Peacekeepers will converge upon the main entrance in forty-five seconds."

"_What?"_

"I gave them the information. I told them this was the center of a rebel movement. They will burn everyone in this place and think they have struck a great victory. They will be wrong."

Brooke looked around, panicking. She wanted to believe he was lying, that the pale man finally had told a joke, but he didn't as much as flinch. "I can't let these people burn, they don't even know."

"You asked for the right motivation. I give it to you."

"Rio and I are trying to help people, not watch them die!"

"No one helps like a martyr. Fifteen seconds."

Brooke set her jaw and stood up from the table. She couldn't let this just happen, even if the pale man was spot-on with his assessment. This was –"

_Bam!_

Smoke flooded the front doorway. Someone screamed. Shadows moved forward in the haze. Her mind racing, Brooke bolted towards the rear escape. Someone else hurried towards her just a shot rang out. He tripped, stumbled, and spat up a mouthful of blood. _Dead_.

_Oh shit. Storm and Sea, protect me._

Brooke burst open the iron grate, revealing the dirty, stone-layered rear staircase. Her lungs burned as the smoke grew thicker and more shots rang on.

_Fwoosh!_

_They have a flamethrower_, she thought. The next scream was long, loud, and horrible. For a moment, she remembered a child in her Hunger Games, a girl, District 5, she believed. She'd fallen into a swampy pool filled with giant alligator mutts not ten yards in front of Brooke, and as the beasts had pulled her under, she'd screamed, just like that. Long, loud, and horrible.

Brooke looked back as she pulled herself inside the stairwell. The pale men stood as still as a statue in the middle of the basement as two figures fell in front of him. Fire leapt from the wall. A half-dozen other shadows marched forward, hunched down in combat pose and clutching weapons. Peacekeepers.

The victor could just make out what one said. "Down!" a Peacekeeper shouted. "Down or we shoot!"

The pale man reached for something. A Peacekeeper's gun rang out, _bang, _but only the pale man's trigger finger flinch.

_Hao!_ The pale man's gun whined, a dark, mournful cry, not at all like a gun but like a man howling in pain. _Hao!_ It whined again, a third time, six times! He looked back as the six Peacekeepers fell. Brooke nodded, out of breath, her mind spinning as she closed the grate.

The last thing she saw was the pale man pull his hood farther over his face as he walked forward into the smoke and flames.

**/ / / / /**

"I hear you went to my daughter's party a couple nights ago."

I gulped. Two days after Calla's uncomfortable advances, my mind still swam in dark seas. It didn't help that the night before had delivered another bombshell. My tributes' chances were dwindling ever more after Fenton had received a six in training and Mari a four. Even Finch couldn't console them. I was running out of ways to help my kids survive, and I hardly knew how to make their situation better when I was dealing with my own darkness.

Even Caro's Gardens couldn't lift my spirits. The Presidential Mansion's arboretum was a beautiful place in the heart of summer. Thick-trunked plants sprouted vivid red plumage, their branches hanging so low their flowers almost touched the surface of the still reflecting pool. Here and there Capitol attendants rested on shady benches or walked down pebble-strewn paths between ferns the size of horses, but this place felt a peaceful sort of lonely.

It would have felt more like that if I hadn't been here with the president.

Creon Snow didn't look so impressed by the Gardens. He'd no doubt walked these walks a thousand times himself by now, but given the way he creased his brow and narrowed his eyes even more than usual, something else troubled him.

"I did," I said at last.

"Have fun?"

I knew he wasn't _actually_ asking if I had fun. "Rex Rousseau took me. I met Calla."

"Rex?" he said, rolling his eyes. "Didn't think he got out."

"He was happy to introduce me to a bunch of people."

"Way I hear it, he shuts himself in for months at a time," said Creon. "I don't care about him. What did my daughter want?"

I stopped in my tracks. How could I even tell the truth about this? "I…I think she was interested in me."

Creon snorted. "Lecherous woman."

"I didn't mean to –"

"You think you're offending me?" he said, leading me on further down the garden path. "Her grandfather raised her. My father. I had a little hand in her upbringing, but not most of it." After I said nothing, he added, "You want to ask if I regret that? No. I don't. I would've raised her right if I could've, but I had a job to do in the districts. I had to coordinate Peacekeepers here and there, so I did my job. It was what my father needed, so I did it. If Calla's too much a hedonist to understand the same duty, that's on my father."

He set his jaw and looked over the reflecting pond. "I suspected for a long time he coddled her. Taught her to play the piano and watch the Games, but never taught her an ounce of responsibility. Now you know what not to do if you ever have children."

"Maybe it was just love."

"Love. That solves nothing," he said. After a short while, he added, "Do you want children one day?"

"Me? I…yeah," I stuttered.

"Really? Why?"

"I…" I stopped. He'd been honest with me, hadn't he? That was better than a lot of people. "My dad didn't want a girl. He made that clear. I want to do better."

Creon shrugged. "Worse reason than some, better than others. Taurus Sharpe has children. I doubt he had as good motives."

"He talked to me at the party."

"Yeah? And what did he say?"

"Julian was drunk, and Taurus didn't like that you keep him around."

"Julian's the best at his job, he has important connections, and he's good with little details. I already knew they barely tolerate each other. What else?"

"He…he said he wants me to be a 'advisor.' He mentioned something about potential."

Creon narrowed his eyes further. "Potential?"

"He said I should prove that I can do this stuff and all. I don't know."

The president pursed his lips and nodded towards a stone bench between a pair of palm trees. "Sit."

Sometimes when talking with Snow, I had a feeling he was winging it just as much as I was. He was less than two years into his job, barely more into it than I was into being a victor. "Taurus is a smart man," Creon said, slumping forward and planting his elbows on his knees. "Smarter than most in the country. Responsible man, too. He might butt heads with Cyrus and Julian, but he's valuable to keep around. I almost had him keep an eye on you instead of Cyrus."

"What?"

He glanced over at me. "I told Cyrus Locke to keep an eye on you after you won. Make sure you didn't do anything stupid and that you were trustworthy. You've been fine enough so far. It's important to get the truth out. My father was no fan of lying, and apart from his other faults, he was right about that."

Creon pulled a small silver orb from his pocket and twirled it around his fingers. "Cyrus, Taurus, Julian, they're all smart people, all well-connected, and all have been playing this little game a lot longer than I have. That's why you're valuable to me, even if Taurus Sharpe sees you good for something else. You're a new to all this subtlety, all this smiling with one hand stretched out and one behind your back. You're not the only one, though."

"I spoke to a man the other day," he went on, continuing to twirl the orb between his fingers. "He's the chief scientist here in the Capitol, Varno Rensler. Another man who needs to get out more. He makes all those beasts you see in the Games. That black thing that chased you around last year and put you in a hole? That was his doing."

"You talked to him about that?"

"Not about that. I don't care about that. He's a smart man too, one who knows his way around the technical bits I can't be bothered to learn. I went to him with this," said Snow, holding out the orb. "Know what it is?"

"A ball bearing?"

"An assassin's weapon. Once it carried a poison that would kill my father. According to Rensler, it was built in District 3, but is made up from components and materials that never find their way into any of 3's foundries."

Creon pocketed the orb. "I admit I'm in a position of weakness with Rensler. I learned all I could about you, but I never looked into him hard enough. If he can help me figure out who killed me father, than I want to figure out if he's trustworthy. I want to know what he wants."

"And you want me to help?"

"Yes."

I exhaled hard. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Sometime in the next few days, approach him about sponsorships," Creon said. "I can tip your escort off into setting up a meeting. It won't be hard. If you want money from him, take it, but learn what his aim is. Find out his motive. He knows a lot, and I want in on it."

I nodded, but I felt my spirits sink even further. Another wild chase around the Capitol in the hopes of unearthing secrets about these people I didn't know. Taurus Sharpe wanted me to prove my responsibility, and it seemed Creon wanted the same thing. Maybe I wasn't up to it. Maybe I wasn't up to any of this. Maybe I just wanted to sit in these gardens for a while, to lay down in the grass on the edge of the reflecting pool and forget about the world in the afternoon. For now, I couldn't imagine anything better.

Unfortunately, that wasn't an option.

"Terra," Creon said right after dismissing me. "You really want to be a mother one day?"

I turned. "Yeah. I do."

"Wait on Rensler for a day and a half," he said. "You have two children now, and that's how long you have with them. Make it count."


	44. Evening

_**+ Big thanks to melliemoo and Radio Free Death for the reviews! I went a little far on the language in this chapter to flesh out some characters I've only touched on, so fair warning. Super-long chapter on deck, fyi. I really should cut these down.**_

**/ / / / /**

The president gave good advice. I gave Fenton and Mari my all in prepping them for the interviews, and on the big day, I stayed by their sides as long as I could. It may not have calmed their fears entirely, but it did ease my own anxieties – and build my confidence that maybe, _maybe_, one of these two could make it back home alive. Fenton, for his credit, wasn't backing down from the challenge. He may not have been the most approachable guy ever, and it may have felt strange training a boy two years older than me, but he had a chip on his shoulder that wasn't going away. I could do my part if he could fight – and I didn't have any doubts he could fight.

Mari needed a softer touch.

"I can't do it," she blubbered on the day of the interviews. She hadn't budged from beneath her fortress of bedsheets, even after Daud had hammered his fist against her door. "Can't."

I sighed and sat down on the end of her bed. "It's not gonna be that bad. Finch said it best yesterday. Cicero asks you maybe five or six questions. He does most of the work. You remember the angle we made up? You don't have to worry about your score or anything. Just smile. Look nice. When you're up there tonight, it'll feel a lot easier."

"No it won't."

"What do you think's gonna go wrong?"

"Everyone's gonna be looking at me."

_Huh. Performance anxiety._ That wasn't something I could relate with. I'd found the Capitol spotlight harsh at first, sure, but I'd adapted to the attention. It felt familiar now.

"Look," I said, putting my hand on her blanketed knee as she bunched up sheets around her face. "The audience and everything, they don't matter. They don't know you. They're gonna have fun tonight anyway. You're not doing this for them."

"They're still _watching_."

"I know. But so are other people who matter."

She gave me a skeptical look. "That first day we met," I went on. "You told me you had friends back home, friends you were close with. Lyla, Rose, I think their names were, right?"

"Yeah. They said they'd –"

"Shh. They were scared for you. You were scared. I was scared last year."

Mari was quiet, her eyes darting, trying to make sense of what I was saying. "They're watching tonight," I continued. "They're still scared, but I know you can be strong. You've made it far already. You can be strong for them. They're probably freaking out just as much as we are over what comes next, but if you go up there and just talk with Cicero like you're ready for anything, even if you don't feel that way, you'll make people believe. Your friends. People back home. Whoever. You can be more than just what you feel."

"What do you feel?"

_Didn't expect that_. I bit my tongue and probed her expression. She was questioning, her eyebrows creased as she dug into just what I'd meant by that last bit. "I'm anxious."

"For me?"

"For you and Fenton. And for myself."

She paused before speaking up: "It's not any fun?"

I knew what _it_ meant. "It doesn't matter if being a victor's fun or not," I admitted. "I wouldn't be here to talk to you if I wasn't one. I can be strong for people now. I think that matters more than just what I feel. Now c'mon. Rhea has to dress you up, in her weird way."

The waiting was the worst part. Finch dragged me out on sponsorship duty while the stylists worked over the kids, but my mind wasn't in courting young, tattooed, rich guys and ditzy Capitol girls with green-striped hair and purple eyes. It felt as if the Capitol had two sides: This side, the public side, the one where people looked and talked like walking clichés who did nothing but indulge, and the private side, the one I worked for in secret, the one that gave me orders and advice and played the games that never saw the light of day. I could court the latter. The former was much more a mystery, and unfortunately, it was the one that held the key to gathering sponsorship money.

I'd take a lifetime of listening to Taurus Sharpe's high-handedness over one filled with the bleating narcissism of some of these idiots. There was only so much I could listen to the mundanities of people's lives on full blast, where the most exciting thing was the dinner menu or who screwed who or what ended up in the toilet. I wished I'd made up that last one.

Anxiety clawed at my sanity by the time we headed to the Capitol City Music Hall for the interviews.

"How does this work?" I said as our long white car sped between throngs of onlookers swarming around giant screens displayed around the city. I was thankful the windows were tinted dark.

"Just the same thing as last year. Nothing's changed," said Finch.

"No, like, what do we do?"

Daud frowned. "Nothin' we can do."

"Huh?"

"We sit and watch. Private area with the other victors. You wanna jump on stage or something?"

I folded my arms and looked out the window. It seemed so helpless to do nothing more than everyone else was doing tonight.

"Terra, nobody wants to talk to us tonight, anyway," Finch said as we drew closer to the event. Spotlights burned bright circles on the low cloud cover, and the thrumming of music thumped through the windows. "We'd just be bothering people if we tried to bug them for money tonight. They all want to watch."

"I know, it's just...I want to do something."

"I know too. Tonight, after they're in bed when this is all over, that's when we get to work."

"Not much sleep tonight," Daud groaned.

The amphitheater was huge from the outside, much larger than I'd thought sitting on stage last year. A dozen columns stood guard before twenty tall bronze doors as hundreds of brightly-clad guests streamed forward. Five great granite walls decorated with elaborate frescoes supported a giant limestone dome atop the building. Gold was everywhere: Gold linings down the side of the dome, gold studs along the top of the amphitheater's walls, gold-inlaid murals above the front doors, even ornamental gold gargoyles watching over the front steps. Light shined out of an oculus somewhere at the top of the dome, casting a brilliant white beam into the dark clouds above.

A private back entrance gave us a surreptitious way in, and it wasn't long before Finch and Daud led to me to the victors' viewing chambers. It was a nice place, if lacking so much of the livelihood that made the amphitheater such a vibrant place. Cool green carpeting and soft white lights glistening from chrome chandeliers gave the wide room a muted dreariness. Large television screens showed live feeds of the stage and the audience, who right now were enraptured by a loud, angry musical performance. Victors clustered in little circles here and there, some I knew, some I didn't. For a room that seemed large enough to fit every living victor, it seemed surprisingly empty – and lonely. I couldn't count more than twenty people here in all.

"Where is everyone?" I whispered to Finch as we walked in.

"Not all victors come to the Capitol every year," she said, keeping her voice low. "Some who do like to keep their privacy and don't show up to this kind of thing."

"A nice way to put it," Daud added.

I didn't stick with my mentors for long. Finnick Odair waved me over from across the room, and I was happy to see a friendly face. I still felt uncertain over my interview with Drake.

Finnick wasn't alone. I'd met the short-haired, disgruntled-looking woman next to him before, way back during the Victory Tour's stop in District 7. Johanna Mason looked much more intimidating tonight. "Having fun, squirt?" she said as I walked up. "After your girl got a four in training, I told myself, 'See? She can't kill my kids this year!' Then I remembered you got a five. What a kick in the crotch."

"You killed my kid during your Games," Finnick said.

"That's a totally different thing. Totally different."

"Uh-huh," he said, turning back to me. "First year here. Like the place?"

Unlike with the Capitol crowd, I wasn't so worried about what I said anymore with the other victors. I belted out the first thing that came to mind: "It sucks."

Johanna burst out laughing. "Yeah, it really does. God, wake up, Haymitch!"

She kicked the table next to her, upon which an old, gray-haired man snoozed. He jolted at Johanna's kick, slapping the table and nearly knocking over a half-full glass of dark brown drink. His hair was a mess, full of unkempt gray strands dangling here and there. Given the lines creasing his face and the way his eyes sagged, I guessed he had to be in his sixties at least.

"Huh?" the man, Haymitch, blurted. "They start already?"

"Like you really want to watch," Johanna snorted.

Haymitch shoved her. "You're full of optimism, huh?"

"Oh, sorry. I can't wait until we all hold hands and sing along to cooperation. You want to start? Besides, you're making the squirt uncomfortable."

He looked up at me through half-glazed eyes and sighed. "When'd you get here?"

"Have you met Haymitch?" Finnick asked, and upon the shake of my head, continued: "Haymitch Abernathy. District 12. He's been around a while."

"I think we've all overstayed our welcome by a couple decades," Haymitch said, swirling the drink around his glass. I immediately imagined Daud: Was this what my older mentor would look like in ten or twenty years? "How 'bout you, sweetheart? Excited to here Caesar or whoever the hell is doing this tonight make some bad jokes?"

I shrugged. "I don't want to be here. Out there I could at least try to get sponsorships."

"Oh, this is right out of a book of clichés," Haymitch groaned. "So much enthusiasm! Are you gonna go back into the arena and fight this year, too?"

"Well, I'm not gonna get anything done here. We're gonna start soon and –"

"And what?" he asked. "You're gonna solve the riddle to getting your kids out alive based on how much Cicero laughs tonight? Yeah, good one, sweetheart."

"Well, it's better than doing nothing!"

"Yeah, because all your victor experience will change things, huh?" he went on. "I won this thing, too. Forty-seven years ago, in fact. Want to know what's happened since then? Nothing. Get used to it."

"Haymitch!" Johanna protested with a smile. "You're supposed to let her be disappointed. You're spoiling what happens next."

Finnick stepped in, grimacing. "Before you guys make her cry in front of everyone," he said, steering me away from Haymitch and Johanna. "How about we break this conversation up?"

"Oh, yeah, be a good dad," Johanna said with a smirk. "You were more fun when you weren't pretending to be responsible, Finnick."

He tried his best to conceal a smile as he led me away from them. I felt heated, but I didn't resist. So far, I hadn't found much to like about most of the other victors, Finnick the exception. "They're, uh, a little jaded," he said. "You get used to it."

"Yeah, I'm sure they're a lot of fun," I spat.

"Try to step into their shoes. It's been a while since District 7 won, and I'm willing to bet someone on your team's told you about the kind of things District 12's dealt with lately. Be a little open-minded, Terra."

I bit my lip. _True_. Elan's lecture about Panem's outermost district sounded a lot louder now. No victors since Haymitch. Disease. Poverty. Ember had told me as much last year, and yet I still couldn't wrap my head around it. It was just…so foreign from what I knew in District 5. I'd spent less than a day there, and had rushed through most of the other districts, as well. If anything felt normal to me, it was here in the Capitol, this place that wanted to use me but gave me purpose, despite all the glaring lights and vapid partygoers. It was easier to deal with this than to think about starving plague victims in District 12.

"Why doesn't Haymitch at least act like he's trying?" I said, putting up a last defense.

"You think he hasn't before?" countered Finnick. "He's alone. It's not like your guys. Imagine you're all by yourself back home, no other victors but you, no family, no real friends in the district. Imagine that going on for almost fifty years. Does that make you optimistic?"

I sighed, "No."

"There you go." He paused and grinned. "By the sounds of it, you're butting heads with other victors, too."

I knew instantly what he was talking about. "Finnick, I didn't – Drake and I just –"

"You don't have to apologize or anything. It's an interview. Drake's a jerk sometimes," he said. "Although he stomped back into our floor and called you a 'fucking hypocrite,' so that's something."

"No. Come on. He said I should've died."

"Well, you know what you winning meant. I mentored Tethys and Delfin. They were good kids."

"Finnick, am I supposed to just bend over and die so he feels good?"

He laughed. "No. But as much as I want to laugh at my son getting angry over this, do you see his side? You want your kids to win this year, right? We have kids too. Should they just bend over and die so you feel good?"

I exhaled loudly in a huff. Finnick was right, of course. We were all in this for our people. It just felt stupid. I didn't want to be against any of these people, even Johanna and Haymitch for all their cynicism, but I wouldn't let Fenton and Mari down for their sakes.

A rescuer saved me from any more embarrassment in the face of Finnick's logic assault. Phoebe from District 10 dashed up, looking far too enthusiastic for the surroundings. "What are you doing with these fuddy duddies?" she yelped, nearly knocking Finnick aside to pull me away. "They're old and they're gonna make your mind mush."

"Don't you spoil my plan," Finnick chided as Phoebe dragged me off. "Terra, get back here. I have to mush the rest of your mind."

"He'll try to seduce you next," Phoebe said, just loud enough for Finnick to hear. "These lecherous old guys creep me out."

"Phoebe, come sit on my lap. Annie always likes it."

"Ew!"

Quintus and Lyric ignored me as Phoebe led me up to the two District 1 victors. A half-dozen empty glasses littered a tabletop, and Lyric was halfway through another one. "Where's Drake?" I asked Phoebe, glancing around.

"Probably out sexin' someone," Lyric grunted, watching the television screens without a hint of interest. "Par for the course."

Quintus smirked at me. "I can't imagine the scintillating conversations you had with Johanna Mason and Haymitch Abernathy," he said. "Let me picture it. Oh yes. Yesterday was shit. Today is shit. Tomorrow will be shit. Am I close?"

I shrugged. "That's pretty close."

"I just love this sense of community we have!" he said. "It's so supportive."

"Quintus, shut up," Phoebe said. "We're about to start. Just watch."

She was right. Cicero Templesmith finished his opening remarks just as I looked up and ushered in the girl from District 1, a bright, bubbly blonde in a fluffy pink dress. She overflowed with enough enthusiasm to make Johanna drown in a sea of cheer. "Cerise," Cicero exclaimed, shaking her hand and ushering her to the chair beside him. "What a treat it is to have you up here tonight. And let me say, you are just a treat for the Capitol, too."

"I love it, Cicero!" Cerise said with a bright smile. "It's everything I could hope for."

"I hope someone punches her in the face, hard," Lyric growled into her glass.

Phoebe looked offended. "You don't mean that. She's your tribute. I'm sure you're teaching her well."

Lyric looked amused. "No. I do mean that."

"She is just a ball of sunshine," Quintus mused as Cerise plowed through the interview, smiling and offering up happy answers to every one of Cicero's questions. "In particular, she's one of those rays of sunshine that strike the world too hard and burn everything to a crisp. A bit detrimental to the cause, you know?"

For all of Quintus and Lyric's put-downs, Cerise was on top of the interview, and the crowd couldn't stop applauding as she left the stage. "At least getting sponsorships for her will be easy," I murmured.

"Fun," Lyric murmured.

Phoebe coughed. "If you want, we can go together. Kind of a team thing even though we're different districts."

"No, we can't," Lyric said, rolling her eyes.

It was District 1's other tribute, however, that caught my attention. Brocade Goswell was a hulking beast of a tribute, more man than boy, bigger than even Acheron McRath had been last year. He didn't sound like the District 1 I know, refuting Cicero's probes with one-word answers and gruff laughs. He looked like something forged in District 2 and lured to District 1 for the sole purpose of winning the Hunger Games, with his huge shoulders and boulders of arms making me wince. I couldn't imagine a physical test in the arena even challenging him.

District 2's girl wasn't much beyond a pretty face and some muscles, but it was the boy from District 2 who caught my attention. On first glance he wasn't much: He was shorter than any of the three tributes who had come before, and for a boy from District 2, he lacked the build and power I'd have expected. But despite his floppy brown hair and plain face, he had one thing going for him: His name.

"Achilles McRath," I echoed Cicero's greeting. "McRath. That was Acheron's last name last year."

"I think that's his younger brother," Phoebe said, watching as Cicero shook Achilles's hand. "I was trying to pay attention during the Reaping recap."

"I missed it. Did they say anything important about any of the other tributes?"

"I don't know. I fell asleep during District 4."

I laughed. "Mission accomplished, I guess."

"It's been a while since District 2 won," Phoebe said, watching Achilles maneuver through Cicero's questions. He was good with words, even if his physique wasn't up to his brother's standards. "I have this really bad feeling about that. I mean, I'm probably screwed anyway, but…"

"Love your fatalism, Phoebe. It brightens up the place," Quintus said. "Bet their mentors are mad as hell, though. They always seemed to take this stuff so seriously."

"Doesn't your district volunteer? Because that sounds pretty serious to me," I said.

Quintus laughed. "How judgmental of you, Terra! But basically. Our whole contingent likes to come here every year. I just get dragged along. And I like the food. If you want to know more, you can ask Cashmere and Gloss all about our district. Then again, they'd be caught talking with victors from 'those backwards districts.' So much for that idea."

"Lyric got in a fight with Gloss last year, for the record," Phoebe chimed in.

Lyric smirked. "Yeah. He's not that bad of a guy."

"He really is," said Quintus.

She shrugged. "Mm. Yeah. He actually is."

District 4's tributes were unremarkable, to say the least. I felt my heart speed up as their boy jumbled his words talking with Cicero, but not because I was too worried about them. This time last year, I'd felt lost in a rushing sea of color and light. The experience had been overwhelming. I hoped Fenton and Mari were up to it.

I didn't have to wait long for the answer. No sooner had Cicero ushered the boy from 4 off the stage then Mari shuffled out onto the stage. Head down, eyes searching the crowd, _ouch_. Not the best first impression, even in her bright, fluffy pink dress.

"Marigold," Cicero greeted her after the crowd calmed down. "Welcome, welcome. Stepping into some big shoes, aren't you?"

"Hardly. Your feet are rather small," Quintus cracked.

Mari's one-word answers and shy smiles weren't helping my anxiety. If Elan's concept of branding really was the make or break point for tributes – and it seemed to have worked for me – then I had no idea where to go now. After a few questions, it felt as if Cicero was reaching to draw something more than a yes or no out of her.

"She's not…you didn't train her personally, or anything, right?" Quintus said, cocking his eyebrow as Mari scurried off the stage to muted applause.

"Leave her alone," I growled, taking offense at his remark. It was one thing if he was taking shots at me or the other victors, but Mari was a different story. "She's just quiet. The stage isn't her kind of thing."

"My fellow victor is rolling her eyes," he said, nudging Lyric's shoulder.

"What? Once she's in the arena, she'll be fine. Just watch."

Lyric sighed. "I don't have enough fingers to count the number of times I've heard a victor, on screen or in person, say they had confidence in a tribute who bit the dust not ten minutes into the Games."

"I've been in the Games too, thank you."

"Maybe you're just forgetting how it felt," Lyric said. "But most kids aren't scheming or luring others into snakes. Some piss their pants. Some fall down in front of a guy with a sword and beg for mercy. Some scream for their mothers. If you think you're never going to see that from one of yours, good luck."

"Not this year," I grumbled, folding my arms and watching as Fenton took the stage.

He provided a better interview, but I wasn't feeling confident as I returned to the Training Center following the conclusion of the show. Mari scampered off to bed, not wanting to talk about the interview as if she was regretting it. I felt a pang of disappointment as I walked off to bed – not in her, but in myself. Could I have done _something_ to help her prepare better? Gather more sponsorships? Beg Creon or someone else on his council for money?

Ugh.

I nearly walked right into Fenton in the hallway. "Hey," I said, trying to get around him. "You should probably go to bed. It's…it's gonna be an early morning."

"You too," he said, looking down. "I, um…goodbye, huh?"

I turned as I passed him. "It's not goodbye. Just goodnight. Finch says I have to be at the Control Center early tomorrow, and Elan'll see you to the hovercraft. But when this is all over…"

"You'll see Mari?"

"No, Fenton, I…I don't…"

"Look," he said, frowning. "She's a good girl. We've talked a lot. I know why you've spent more time with her and probably want her to win."

"I'm not picking between either of you."

"Terra, come on. One gets out. Not both."

I exhaled hard and slumped against a wall. "Fenton, what do you want me to say? You're a lot older than her. I gave her more time because she's small and young and needs it. Not because I like her more. You deserve to win just as much as she does."

"Yeah, I do," he said. "I like her, but…would you kill Glenn again? After what you did last year, would you do it again?"

I bit my lip. "He wanted to die. I…yeah, I would. I wanted to get out. He just wanted to end all the pain."

"It's still the same thing. Terra, you're cool, but as much as you like Mari, I'm not sitting down for her. If it somehow comes down to the two of us, I'm doing what I have to."

There wasn't any way I could blame him. So much of me wanted Mari to win. She was innocent, naïve, shy, everything that said she didn't understand what she was headed into. Fenton was right. If it came down to the two of them, I'd root for her.

But if I was in his shoes, I'd kill her all the same. Maybe that was what it took to win.

"Fenton, whatever happens, I want to go home with four victors," I said. "That's all. I can't ask for anything more."

"It's stupid. I just went through the motions at school and at work," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and staring into dead space. "I did things because there were things to do. Schoolwork to finish. Tasks to do up top of the canyon. People said do 'em, so I did them. Now it feels like I'm carrying so much more weight on my shoulders, and it's all on me to do it. It's weird."

I grabbed his shoulders. "It's not all on you. I'm gonna help you. Promise. So will Daud and Finch and Elan. We're all here to help you."

"Not really the point," he said, gritting his teeth. "If I die, I'm dead. Screw it. I won't feel anything else. I guess I should tell you good luck, because you're the one living with all this. I see Daud and his drinks and Finch wringing her hands and trying to think up all these solutions, and it's like…doesn't really seem all that great, y'know? I'll figure it out, Terra. If you want to help Mari more than me, go for it."

"I don't, Fenton. Really. I'm going to help you both. Swear."

He sighed. "Yeah. Well, dunno if it's goodbye or goodnight, then. Good luck, I guess."

**/ / / / /**

Cyrus held his breath and opened the doors to the Assembly Hall.

"President Snow," he said.

Creon had his back turned across the room. Upon the great conference table sat a holographic projector displaying a live map of District 4. Blue circles lit up the ground all around the area from the coast to the inland precincts, each with a beacon indicating a pop-up report. One flashed red – a recent one, an urgent report.

Creon shrugged. "You have contacts in 4. Have a look at that," he said.

Cyrus closed the great doors and popped up the latest report. He scanned it for a moment and inhaled sharply. "They killed them."

"Rebels," Snow hissed, turning around with his hands clasped behind his back. The soft evening lightning made his face look especially hardened. "See what your sympathy gets you, Cyrus? Not even a year after the place riots, Peacekeepers have to storm another den of bandits. Six of ours dead."

"If I could speak my mind, I'd say this isn't going to help –"

"And what would?" demanded Creon. "Letting these bandits ran rampant all over the district? Letting this Rio West play us for fools? That's what they think of us. Fools. All of us. You, me. The moment we prove them right is the moment the death toll leaps from six to hundreds."

Cyrus gave a moment's pause as Creon opened the glass doors to the outdoor patio. Outside, trance music echoed up from the street as colored strobe lights ran across the sky. Capitol crowds celebrated the eve of the Hunger Games, blissfully unaware of the conflict that divided the room.

"We can't afford to prompt open rebellion in the district," Cyrus said, following Creon out onto the balcony. "You know just as well as I do that we have enemies on the east coast. District 13 is lying in wait, hoping we misstep. Adding an enemy on the west coast would give them ammunition."

"We crushed them once," Creon said. "Who was first in line after District 13 rebelled during the Dark Days?"

"This isn't the Dark Days. Who knows if we can count on District 2 this time? They're building up their home guard. If we don't keep the peace with the districts, we'll never be able to withstand an invasion from 13, let alone hold off any internal rebellions."

Creon slumped over on the balcony railing as Cyrus walked outside. He looked different, Cyrus thought. The president was only in his fifties – young by Capitolian standards – but the stress of this job was getting to him. _He doesn't have the same political chops as his father. He's a commander. He can lead troops and earn their loyalty, but this is a different game_.

"I was there when 8 rose up," Creon said, watching the crowds below. "Thousands of people all fighting against us. My father had sent me away to learn how to lead, and I did. I led our unit against the industrial block, holding off wave after wave of the rioters. How many died fifteen years ago? Three hundred? More? It was the worst riot in a generation, far worse than last year's. We fought. We had a duty to fight, and we had an enemy, so we held them. It wasn't like this. When they were finished, they knew it. They bowed out, and I can respect an enemy that knows they're conquered. I don't respect an insurgency, Cyrus. They're little more than a terrorist bloc."

"With respect, perhaps we should look at their motivations."

"Yeah? And what are those?"

Cyrus pursed his lips. "I grew up in District 2. I stood there every Reaping as children went off to the Games, most never to come back. I saw men die in the stone quarries. Most of them never knew why they were working, beyond staving off poverty and death. Toiling away put a paycheck in their pocket and kept their families going. What if that's not enough? A fishing boat blew up in 4 last year, and they think we destroyed it. Can you blame them for rioting? What if they can't even rely on safe work to keep food on the table?"

"That's an excuse," Creon spat. "I've reviewed the records. We're not guilty for that."

"Whatever it was, they thought we were guilty. The thought counts. The longer we fight them, the more we reinforce it."

"So what? We bend over for them? Let them use us?"

"We reach out. We stop hunting and we give them room to grow. There are starving people in District 4, no matter how wealthy the place looks. What if we help them get on their feet?"

Creon stared off into the distance. Despite all the light from the street, his face looked dark and clouded by shadow. "After these Games, maybe," he said after a long pause. "I want to get these things over with."

"It's a lot to deal with."

"Twenty-three kids die, starting tomorrow. What a waste. Then we end up the Terra Pikes of the world."

"You like the girl?"

"I'm not saying I like her, just that I want to be able to trust her."

"She's eager to please."

"She is."

"I don't know if that's a good thing. You need a victor who can speak their mind. Terra's cowed by power."

"You don't like her?"

"Not saying I don't like her."

"But you mean it," Creon said. "That's alright. I only need someone who can carry out a job, and she seems capable of that. If I can like her, all the better. I won't end up like my father, cut down by invisible assassins. I'm getting to the bottom of all this unrest, and I'm doing it now."


	45. The Pale Heart

_**+ Thanks again to melliemoo for another fantastic review! This turned out to be a very revealing chapter for the D5 contingent.**_

**/ / / / /**

I could just hear Mari's peaceful snores through her door as I left the fifth floor the next morning, and I hoped it wouldn't be the last time I heard them.

The Capitol streets were quite in the early morning sun as Finch, Daud, and I rode in a private car to the Games Control Center. Finch's hands were clasped, her hair a mess, her eyes shut as she murmured something to herself. Daud stared out the window, statuesque. If he hadn't coughed every few minutes, I wouldn't have been able to tell he was alive. It seemed like a bad time to ask what happened next.

Compared to the Training Center and Presidential Mansion that I'd grown so accustomed to, the Control Center wasn't much of a sight. It was a plain, squat building, bleached white, boxy, and only about a block long. A trio of double glass doors opened right onto the outside walk, and the long row of second story windows overlooking the street lacked any of the colorful stains or glittering gilding that decorated the more notable buildings of the city.

"Here's our stop," Daud groaned as our car pulled up to the doors.

The Control Center's insides weren't very impressive, either. A small foyer lined with a floor of checkerboard tiles opened up into the nerve center of the Hunger Games. Dozens of Capitol attendants sat at computer stations all arranged in a circle around a great disc of a holographic map of the arena. I could just make out hills and tall mountains stretching out high to the left of the map's center before Daud and Finch hurried me along towards a door on the left. Blue lights shined everywhere in here, from the ceiling, from the map, from the computer stations, even from behind the great, blacked-out television screens hanging above a platform upon which Galan Greene strolled. He raised his eyebrows and grinned at me as Finch hurried me away.

She glanced over her shoulder and frowned. "Creepy guy."

"Surprised he hasn't put his hands all over you already," Daud said to me, disapproval in his voice. "Unless he has."

"No. Not him," I said. _Thank the gods for that._

Finch hurried ahead, but Daud paused and stared at me with an odd expression. He furrowed his brow, pursed his lips, and left some silent question hanging. I thought of Calla Snow, swallowed hard and avoided his gaze. _He knows something_.

The room adjacent to the nerve center was a wheel-like hub. Twelve clouded glass doors stretched off like spokes, each adorned with the number of a district. Television screens and chairs filled out the center of the hub as a sort of communal meeting place, but it was empty – save for a tired, ragged-looking Haymitch sprawled across one chair, his legs draped over an arm, his feet propped up on a table, and a glass of whiskey in his hand.

"Great, company," Haymitch belched. "Oh, it's the perky kind. Up for the task, sweetheart?"

He raised his glass in my direction in a mock toast. I smiled. "I'll take any advice."

"I'd say stay alive, but you did that. Try to keep other people alive. How's that?"

"That's a lot of shit dribbling out of your mouth," Daud growled.

I stepped back. My mentor looked _angry_. He scowled at Haymitch, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed as if sizing up an opponent. Haymitch took a long swing and laughed. "Don't let the guy ruin your day, sweetheart, if he hasn't already. He has a way of doing that. I'd hate to sleep on the same floor."

"How hard it must be to sleep at all for a man in your position," Daud spat.

"Hey," Finch said, grabbing his shoulder. "Leave it. Good luck, Haymitch."

"Finch," said Haymitch, nodding.

Haymitch looked amused as Finch led me to the door marked with a tan _5_. Beyond the doors was a quiet room, full of electronics and lights but sterile. A miniature version of the giant Gamesmaker map popped up from a circular console in the middle of the room. Six television screens made up a large array on the far end of the room, with several couches and chairs all around the perimeter. A bright, square, white depression in the wall perked my interest, but besides that, I understood the rest of this place: It was our office.

"Map's up," Finch said, shutting the door and glancing towards the holographic console. "We have a few hours to pick it over."

"A lot more than some people are doing," Daud grumbled.

I glanced towards the door, unsure of what to make of his confrontation with Haymitch. "What was that about?"

"Haymitch is probably drunk," Finch said, scanning over the map. "This isn't really his day, either. He's gone forty-seven years without anything. Try to step in his shoes."

"I can. They're a coward's shoes," Daud rumbled.

Finch looked exasperated. "Daud…"

"He quit a long time ago," Daud went on. "He gave up on every one of his children. Chose drink over them."

"Yeah, you drink too."

"Not at the expense of the kids I'm supposed to protect. Don't put me in the same sentence as him, Finch. He's a dog."

Finch looked over at me with pleading eyes. "Terra, I've talked with Haymitch. He's a good man. Just tired. District 12's had it tough. It's hard for him to keep trying after all these years."

I wanted to understand. Elan's words about the plague that had struck the district, Ember's recount of his home, they told me of a place that had known horror – more so than any other place in Panem. I wanted to give Haymitch the benefit of the doubt.

But I couldn't, not if he really had given up.

"Daud's right," I whispered. "He's a coward if he quit trying."

The waiting was the hard part, and I spent the hours before the Games kicked off studying the arena. I felt a pang of envy: It was much more hospitable than the hellscape I'd escaped, a great green thing, a stadium of trees and clouds and life. It was a giant cloud forest high in the mountains, its snow-capped hills birthing rivers that cut a half-dozen arteries through the map from east to west. Mist and fog hung over everything. A hidden city of stone temples and ruins lay in a shrouded valley just to the north of the Cornucopia, the golden horn positioned atop a basalt mount like a shaded beacon unable to slice through the mystery below the clouds. Valleys ringed the immediate vicinity around the Cornucopia, teeming with life small and large. Giant mushrooms and bulbous, man-sized fungi towered over the underbrush, cloaked in the shadow of the rainforest canopy. I couldn't see a live feed of the arena yet, but I already knew it gave Mari and Fenton a chance.

"Going with the no-sunlight theme again. Did the Light ever reject Galan Greene or something?" Daud said. "It'll be cloudy. And rainy."

"At least there's water," I pointed out.

"Too much water's no good for anyone."

The hours felt like days. I slumped over in a chair, picking my fingernails, my nerves on edge. "What's the white dent in the wall for?" I asked after what felt like a week of waiting.

"Food," Finch said, typing at a computer terminal against the far wall. "You can stay here as long as you want. Get hungry, order anything."

"Is that what you're doing?"

"Nah. I'm messaging some sponsors back. Once the Cornucopia action's all done, that's what we'll be doing."

"If ours are still alive," Daud murmured.

"Way to be optimistic. What were you saying about Haymitch?"

"If everyone in the Games were optimists, what would you tell them?"

The television screens flickered to life with a ten-minute countdown to launch. I squirmed in my chair as images of the rainforest sprang to life. Marmalade slime molds dangled from trees, picked at by cotton candy-covered rodents. Birds – or bats, or some things with scaly red wings – flew overhead, each the size of a car. Dew clung to everything, and an ocean of fog sapped the arena of color.

Five of the screens showed images of the arena, but one popped up with Cicero and Caesar Flickerman. It was the broadcast I'd seen so many times as a little girl, the one all of Panem saw. This was live. The 97th Hunger Games was on.

"Quivering with excitement!" Cicero was in the middle of saying as the television flicked on. "This buzz you always get, Caesar. Just a few minutes to go before our tributes enter the arena, and already I can't wait for what the opening has in store!"

Daud scoffed. "I can tell you. Dead people."

The ground opened up with ninety seconds to go. Mist blurred scared faces, tear-streaked cheeks, and loose jackets not strong or thick enough to keep the damp out for long. I searched the screens, desperate for a look at Fenton or Mari. There – closest to a drop off over a steep decline stood Mari, her hands her shaking, her chest heaving. _Look back_, I urged. _Look back behind you. Find a way down_.

But she didn't. Mari scanned the Cornucopia, her fists clenched. _No. No!_ As the timer counted down past thirty seconds to launch, I sucked in my dread and checked out the Cornucopia too. Polearms filled the horn's mouth to the brink: Long, jagged-bladed axes rested against gunmetal gray containers. A pair of staffs with short swords built into their ends stuck into the ground at the Cornucopia's entrance. Closest to Mari, a simple, short spear with an obsidian head rested against a lumpy sack. _Food? Extra clothes for the damp?_

I didn't get time to think it over.

_Bang!_

A green flare shot out of the tail of the Cornucopia into the clouds. Tributes ran, some in, some out, some dancing from foot to foot, unsure of what to do or where to go. One skinny girl fell off her platform and broke down into a fit.

Brocade, the boy from District 1, sprinted towards the axes.

"There goes our boy," Daud pointed out.

Yup. I caught a glimpse of Fenton streaking off into the fog before focusing back on Mari. _Why wouldn't she move?_ Mari looked on the verge of tears, her eyes flickering this way and that, her mouth frozen in a half-gape as Brocade picked up an axe, rolled out of the way of a big guy from District 11, and sliced his calf.

Blood spurted. More followed.

"Why isn't she going?" I gasped, my voice shaky.

Daud shook his head. Finch bit her lip. As the girls from 1 and 4 formed up at the Cornucopia, finally, _finally_, Mari dashed forward. Not a dozen feet away, the boy from 4 drove his war hammer's head into the skull of the girl from 6. _Crack!_ Bone shattered like glass.

Mari was a foot away from the spear when Achilles met her.

The boy from 2 was unarmed except for a fist-sized stone he clutched in his right hand. That was enough: As Mari dashed forward, Achilles clipped her in the jaw with the rock. My stomach churned. Mari fell, her chin split open, blood leaking down her neck. She tumbled and scurried back, alive, scared, and facing up at the last person I could think of who would have empathy for a District 5 tribute.

Achilles picked up the spear and gazed down with a blank expression. Mari shook her head, scuttling back with pleading eyes. A whimper escaped her lips.

Achilles thrust the spear.

I screamed.

**/ / / / /**

Reality faded. A kaleidoscope of sound revolved around me for the next hour or two, a melting pot of noise from the television and from my mentors. I didn't care. I planted my face into a couch cushion and clenched my eyes shut.

At one point, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Terra? Terra, come on. We can't stick around here forever."

Finch. I ignored her as Daud said, "Give her the day off."

"Daud," she protested. "Fenton's still running around. We have to help him out, and that means getting with sponsors. Terra has to learn –"

A long pause followed. I guessed Daud gave her a look, as eventually, he leaned in to me and said in a low voice, "Be back here by tomorrow morning."

For a long time after that it was quiet. I faded in and out of sleep, the only voice the taunting in my head.

_Why? _I asked it.

It snorted with contempt. _Duh, stupid. You spent all your time running around with the Capitol folks. You screwed up. You could've taught her. Instead you killed her. In your negligence, you fed her to the wolves._

_No! _I pleaded with myself. _I tried! She was a good girl._

_Not good enough for you, I guess. Does it feel good having her death on your hands? _Your _hands?_

_What could I do? She…I wouldn't have told her to do that._

_So why didn't you?_

_I had things to do! I'm scared. I'm sorry. Why did she even have to be Reaped in the first place? She was nice, shy maybe, but she could've been somebody._

The voice snickered. _Twenty-three could-have-been-somebodies are buried all around your victory. "Victory." How quaint._

_That's not fair._

_Oh? What makes you even conceive you could save Mari or Fenton? Terra Pike, the extra child her father didn't want, the tribute who bumbled her way into victory on the backs of circumstance and others' stupidity. Even now you're tasked with jobs by an infighting Capitol council and you can't handle any of them. _

_I can._

_Glenn. Ember. Tethys. Delfin. Mari. You even doomed the Peacekeeper, Pavo, to a fate worse than death. You ruin everything you touch. You are the snake the Capitol wants you to be. You poison anything worth saving._

A long, quiet time passed before a soft knocking on the door jolted me out of my self-loathing. I didn't look up as someone entered the room. "Hm?" I mustered.

It wasn't Finch or Daud. "You might try eating or drinking before the night is over," Elan said.

I rubbed my eyes, sighed, and sat up. "What time's it?"

"Just after sunset."

_Shit._ I'd been lying here half the day. In my misery, I'd probably made things even worse for Fenton by not tracking down sponsors. I really did ruin everything. "Sorry."

"You're sorry?" Elan said. "Hundreds of thousands are celebrating the end of the first day in the arena. They applaud eleven deaths. You're sorry for mourning one? I would chide you for _not_ mourning one."

"I know I'm supposed to be productive," I grumbled, slouching down and resting my elbows on my knees. Sitting up felt too tiring. "Finch already made that clear."

Elan looked down at me with…was it pity? Sympathy? Unlike with my mentors, I so often had no idea what my escort was thinking or feeling. "Finch has always been a very smart woman," he said. "She can plan and strategize as well as anyone I've ever known. Sometimes she lets that get in the way of empathy and understanding."

"Like that matters."

"Do you remember what I said about Daud?"

I looked up. "He swears a lot?"

"He earned you your knife in last year's Games. He was very productive. He always is, every year. Right now he's being productive, and that productivity comes with a bitter cost."

"That doesn't matter," I said, feeling irritated. "I'm just hurting Fenton by sitting here. Screw it. I'm just going to make things worse for him."

Elan was quiet for a long moment before sitting down across from me. "Daud and Finch don't know the extent of your involvement with the Capitol's highest circles," he said. "But I do."

"Huh?"

"Circumstance has afforded you a taste of real power," he said. "Creon Snow wants someone to trust, someone who knows as little about the Capitol's games as he does, and thus poses little risk. He has taken a chance with the first victor under his watch, and as fate would have it, that's you. Tell me. What good will any of that be if you're whoring yourself out for sponsorship money? What good is power if you're too broken to use it?"

I huddled into a corner of my chair. "How do you know that?"

"I have two ears and two eyes," he said, smiling. "And I know many, many others in the Capitol with two ears and two eyes."

Shaking my head and shutting my eyes, I said, "No. No. I can't do whatever you want to me to do. Mari died because I didn't do anything for her. I can't kill Fenton like that."

"Mourning is fine, but Mari died because she made a bad choice and ran into a bad roll of chance's die. Nothing you could have said would have saved her. You might save Fenton with sponsorships. Daud no doubt helped your case immensely last year. Or you might not. The only known quantity here is sitting in front of me, threatening to throw away everything as a self-imposed penance."

I scowled at him. "I'm not throwing away anything if I help Fenton. I'm not _anything_ anyway. You just said it. I'm only here because I got lucky, because of chance."

"So why not change that? Fenton's survival relies on chance. Your future depends on what you do from here."

Elan stood up and pointed towards the door. "I won't convince you with words. I can sit here all night and try to persuade you not to throw away your body and whatever pride you still have in a desperate act to earn money for children who may be doomed no matter what you do. I know you won't listen. You're not a quitter, even if you think you are. There's so much of Daud in you. So tonight I'm going to show you what you could become if you really are willing to throw away everything for your tributes. Daud's earning sponsorship money right now. I'm going to take you to him."


	46. Dirty Hands, Dirty Ears

_**+ Another great review, thanks melliemoo – and to everyone following along!**_

**/ / / / /**

"Where exactly are we going?"

The Capitol streets zipped by on both sides. Elan sped his private car towards the mountains, away from the crowded streets and towards the blinking golden lights of the rich villas and mansions overlooking the Capitol. No limousine was this: Elan's vehicle was a sleek two-seater, black, stylish, and humming with power. The engine purred as he sped down a wide avenue towards the richest suburbs, and the ride was so smooth I felt as if I were riding some speedy, mechanical falcon, dashing through the streets on a current of air.

Elan nodded towards the villas. "For those truly invested in the Hunger Games, sponsorships have become something of an arms race. There's no cap on donations, and the Capitol's wealthiest can singlehandedly swing a critical moment in the arena. The smartest victors figured out who to court years ago. For District 5, that was Finch, obviously. Daud caught on after she pointed it out several times. Yelled it once, I remember."

"So we're…going to see Daud talk with sponsors?"

My escort chuckled. "Have you ever known Daud to be good with words?"

"Yeah. Four-letter ones."

"Not a very charismatic vocabulary, although it is a practical one."

A half-dozen cars dotted the wide circular drive in front of the blue villa Elan drove up to. It was a more modest place than some of the estates we had passed, certainly smaller than Calla's, and at first glance it appeared a sleepier residence. Only a few lights lit up the windows of the three-story building, which wasn't much more than a city block wide even with its gardens and lawn. A garage wide enough to fit several cars abreast was the only notable feature of the place.

"Isn't someone going to see us?" I asked as Elan lowered his window. "There's people in those cars."

"Drivers," he said, releasing something that looked like a bug out the window. "They won't care."

"What was that?"

"That I let out the window? A drone. Or a mosquito, if you're not looking closely."

I folded my arms and frowned at the villa. "So we're spying on Daud…doing whatever he does to get sponsorships?"

"What did you think we were doing?"

"I don't know. Going in?"

Elan laughed. "If you're lucky, you'll never meet the man who owns this villa. Daud's gathering sponsorships tonight from Ixion Rollo, a man who works for this city's spymaster, Lucrezia Bierce. You're familiar with her, I hear. Apart from that, Ixion also happens to be one of District 5 and District 2's single largest sponsors."

_Ixion_. I knew that name. Months ago Arrian de Lange had said it as he lounged in my kitchen back home in the Victor's Village, right after Pavo the Peacekeeper had been taken away to the Capitol for whatever I'd fated him to. Ixion had been the man in the square that night, the one taunting the doomed Peacekeeper, the one with the beady eyes and blonde hair who'd laughed at Pavo's cries.

I swallowed my apprehension. That was something I didn't want to share with my escort. "Why 2?"

"Daud works this sponsorship alongside Septimus Poole, the victor from District 2."

"So what do they do?"

Elan punched a button on the dashboard. A box unfolded from the center console and unfolded into what I guessed was a television screen. The picture fuzzed, and Elan adjusted dials as he explained, "You're familiar with avoxes?"

A knot formed in my throat. _A little too familiar. _"Yeah."

"They've long done the heavy labor in the Capitol, but less and less so since Julian Tercio took over as the architect of the city," said my escort. The screen's picture blurred into view, but all I could see was gray walls and the occasional hanging light bulb flying by. We were getting the drone's picture in flight, I guessed. "Julian's automated many of the processes that avoxes once did, introducing robotics and computer intelligence to handle many of the monotonous jobs, like offloading cargo from trains from the districts. Years ago that began to open up a surplus of avoxes, and idle hands can become rebellious ones quickly."

"The last President Snow found a solution to too many avoxes, one he'd learned with his victors: He sold them. Punishment and a quick buck came hand-in-hand for Coriolanus Snow, and the system's become ingrained over the last ten years. Criminals have their tongues ripped out, and the ones not still needed for jobs such as serving our dinners in the Training Center are left to the mercy of those who buy them."

"That's little more than slavery. It basically is."

Elan smirked. "Your surprise is surprising."

"No, it's just…" I paused to get my thoughts in order. "What stops everyone from just taking a bunch of random people and making them avoxes when they need money?"

"I wish I knew."

The screen's picture cleared as the drone settled down. A ring of young men sat above a concrete pit, drinks in their hands, laughter on their faces. I couldn't hear anything happening, but I imagined the place was full of banter and noise. The room was spacious, like a small warehouse or a giant basement, all cement and steel and stone. It was dreary apart from the people, but they filled it with color. Nearly every one of the men had bright tattoos are styled hair, many with facial piercings such as silver hoops that hung from their foreheads and cheeks.

Above all, they seemed antsy. The pit below was empty, but a closed steel grate on the opposite side from where the drone watched told me it wouldn't stay empty.

"What are they watching?" I asked, leaning in.

Elan closed his eyes. "What they paid for."

The grate inched its way open. The crowd leaned forward in a wave as a red-garbed man stumbled out, his shirt ripped, his red hair a mess. He gaped at the scene above him with wide, pleading eyes. The man dragged a thin wooden plank behind him, a nail studded through it. He wasn't alone for long: Two more men stumbled out of the door, each dressed the same way, each ragged and confused, each holding an impromptu weapon, one a pole with a metal chain wrapped around one end, the other a rusting shovel.

There was something familiar about the shovel-carrying man. I squinted, and when it hit me, I gasped. It had been dark the first time I'd seen him, but I still remembered his look of terror. _Pavo_.

I was watching my handiwork.

"What's going to happen to them?" I breathed, terrified to know the answer. _What had I done?_

"Keep watching," said Elan.

Two more red-clad men followed the other three until all five huddled in a circle in the midst of the pit, watching the gawking eyes above. From the bottom right of the drone's field of view, another man stepped out. He wasn't clad in avox red, nor did he clutch a makeshift weapon, but instead toted a battleaxe with a blade the size of my head. He was a behemoth, all muscle and bone with shoulders that fell away like mountain cliffs into his granite arms. I knew this man – Septimus, the victor of the 85th Hunger Games from District 2. I'd seen his games in passing on televised reshowings before, but his stature told me more than enough about what he could do.

I had a sinking feeling of what would happen next, and I wasn't disappointed. Another man joined Septimus, nearly as tall, nearly as large and powerful, and dressed in a gray, leathery jacket that looked like armor. He wielded a long, jagged saber as if it was no heavier than a stick. The man grimaced with cautious eyes I saw so many times from behind the lip of a glass of whiskey or a mug of beer.

Daud.

"Oh shit," I exhaled.

The rightmost avox – or ex-avox, as it were – moved first. Perhaps sensing what was coming, he ran at Septimus with a jolt of suicidal courage. The burly victor intercepted his spiked pole with his axe blade, but he didn't counter with a deadly hit. He merely shoved the avox away, hunkering down as the small crowd above jolted, their eyes and faces full of energy and thrill. Septimus was toying with the avox.

I wanted to think Daud was better than that. I knew he was, until he sidestepped the man with the chain and pole, punched him square in the chest, and circled around to the other side of the pit.

"No one likes a quick fight," Elan murmured, sensing my growing nausea.

The other three avoxes, Pavo included, hung back, hunkering down in the middle away from the two well-armed and –armored victors. They didn't want to fight, but there was no way out of this. Daud wore a grim determination on his face, Septimus a stony frown.

The man Daud had warded off took on the victor from 2 next. He must have known what was coming and wanted to get it over with, for he didn't retreat, even as Septimus knocked him away with the butt of his axe. I bit my lip, wanting to close my eyes with every passing second but keeping them on the screen in some perverse fascination of what would come next.

The avox was no fighter. He dropped his pole when Septimus drove his fist into the man's elbow, sending him reeling. No sooner had the avox gotten up than Septimus planted the butt of his axe into the man's gut, keeling him over and leaving him vulnerable for a second strike. It didn't take long. Septimus was much faster than his size gave off, and he whirled with the axe in a blinding flash.

I didn't even want to imagine the sound his blade made as it split the avox's stomach open.

The crowd leaned back as one organism, a leering, laughing thing enraptured by the carnage just beginning below. The other avoxes huddled together, but Daud split them apart as he charged the middle. My fingernails dug into my palm as Daud backed one into a wall. The cornered avox lashed out in a panic, striking Daud's arm with a glancing blow from his nail board – but if my victor felt anything, he didn't show it. Daud trapped the man's weapon against the wall with the tip of his blade, and with one quick motion, drove the base of the sword into the man's neck.

Blood sprayed.

The crowd was all energy as Septimus herded two of the remaining three avoxes. My mentor faced down poor Pavo, and try as I could to look away, I couldn't. I'd sentenced Pavo to this. I had a duty to watch it through to the end.

Like his partner in crime, Daud was a lot faster than I'd imagined. Pavo wasn't much of a Peacekeeper in avox red, but he still tried his hardest to keep my mentor away with stabs from his shovel. His face was nothing but fear now, his eyes agape and skittering from left to right. Daud stepped back and stabbed forward with one foot, his face not once betraying any kind of doubt. The audience leaned forward as Pavo stabbed forward with his shovel.

It was a poor effort. Daud grabbed the tool's handle and threw it away. He kicked out Pavo's knee and grabbed the unbalanced man's shoulder, tossing him towards the center of the pit and swinging down with his sword. He hit concrete as Pavo rolled away at the last minute, but Daud ground his sword along the hard surface and clipped the former Peacekeeper's calf.

Pavo winced. Daud lunged.

Pavo died.

"Turn it off," I said, looking away. "I'm done."

A long minute passed as Elan started up the car again and pulled away from the villa. "It won't be Daud's last time here this year, assuming Fenton can stay alive," said my escort. "The games get boring to young men like these. Too much walking and talking, not enough violence. They're more than happy to pay for bloodshed, so long as it's entertaining."

"That's just sick. That's not worth it. A sponsorship's not worth doing that."

"Daud doesn't think so."

"Then he's wrong."

"Maybe so," Elan said. "Daud has traded many lives for one. Yours. He's the farthest thing from a good man I can imagine. But your knife and your other gifts last year came from him. Finch's contributions were miniscule by comparison. I don't even know if Daud could justify what he does for money, but I don't think he'd even care to."

I sneered. "If that's what sponsorships cost, I'm out. I'll find some other way to help Fenton, and whoever else I have to mentor. I'm not doing that."

"An admirable choice," Elan said. The towers of the city drew closer as the villa district faded behind us. "Although perhaps not a practical one. By now, Terra, you should understand that you'll make no progress in this city – anywhere – if you won't get your hands dirty. How you dirty them is up to you, whether you stain them with blood or sex or blackmail. But you have years and years of mentoring ahead of you. That's quite a few tributes, not to mention any other quagmire this city sucks you into. You'll have to decide what conviction you value most."

**/ / / / /**

I didn't see Daud the next morning. Finch rolled into our Control Center office late, her eyes puffy and underlined with dark circles. She didn't say more than ten words to me before crashing in a chair and watching as Fenton tried – and failed – to start a fire in the arena's misty morning. He'd scrounged up what I guessed were roots, but everything in the cloud forest was damp and wet. He couldn't so much as start a fire as he could go home alive right now.

Not that I had much time to watch. Before the morning was up, Elan whisked me out the door to a meeting with a Capitolian interested in potentially sponsoring Fenton.

"Do I just have to talk to him, or…" I asked.

"I would expect so," said Elan, driving me deep into the heart of the city as the sun rose high into the mountain sky. The air was warm and humid, only getting hotter with each passing hour as not a cloud dotted the blue sky above. "Although not because I don't have reservations about him. He's a cautious man. His name's Varno Rensler, the Capitol's foremost technical expert and chief scientist."

_Rensler_. I had a feeling it was less his interest and more the president's. "Do you know him?"

"I've had a few conversations. I wouldn't say I know him. As a matter of fact, I don't know anyone who really knows him. Strange thing."

For whom Elan called a strange man, Varno certainly treated himself to the finest restaurants. The Amethyst West was a sprawling place, taking up a half a city block just a few streets off of the Capitol Forum. A glassed-in patio housed not only hungry patrons but also all sorts of ornate statues, bizarre flowering plants I hadn't seen even in Caro's Gardens, and even a few brightly plumaged birds squatting atop the highest branches of strategically-placed trees. Shaded blue glass above dimmed the sun's heat, while bright white tiles on the floor dulled the slightest sounds of walking.

That was only the outside. The inside was an even fancier place, lined with purple velvet walls and full of decorative gold screens, silver statuettes hanging from above doorways, and tables lined with jade and lapis lazuli. Elan led me to a private seating area in the back, where gold and crimson dominated the visual palette. Inside a block of bronze screens sat a single, lanky man, his posture as perfect as could be, a lone glass of water and a plate full of steaming green and orange vegetables before him, untouched, as if he was waiting for me to show up before digging in.

"Varno," Elan said, bowing his head slightly as he approached the man. "Terra, if I can present to you Varno Rensler, chief scientist of the Capitol."

Rensler narrowed an eye and grinned. He didn't say anything for a moment, sizing me up, his eyes flicking between me and Elan. "It is so funny," he said after a long while. "seeing you in a place like this. It must be such a shock just to step foot in here."

I shrugged, unsure of what to say. "I'm…it's a bit fancy."

"Oh, not you," Varno said. "Elan. Even after so many years as an escort, I imagine you must feel like an alien in a place like this. Let alone what the other escorts must say."

Elan smiled. "I've adapted. Although who doesn't feel like a stranger in this kind of a place?"

"That's true," said Varno. "I wonder how I manage."

"I wonder too."

Elan nodded for me to approach. "I have other places to be, Terra. Finch wants me back before two."

I looked back and forth between him and Varno. "But…"

"I trust you'll be fine on your own," he said.

He didn't give me time for a rebuttal before he was gone. I swallowed nervously, putting on my best smile for Varno, and saying, "Can I sit?" He held out a hand and I took a seat across from him, turning down his offer of food and drink. This place _was_ a bit too fancy for me.

"Elan told me you're interested in sponsoring?" I asked as he picked at his meal.

He shook his head. "No. I'm not. Elan set up this meeting, not me. I'm only interested to hear your part."

I bit my lip. "Well…my district still has a tribute in the running. Fenton's a good kid. He's a great tribute. I know lots of people probably didn't think highly of me last year, but that turned out well."

Varno stewed on a particularly large red pepper. "It's funny you're here. I would have thought after your time in the arena, after you dealt with the beast I set loose in the games that stalked you all about, that you would have wanted nothing to do with a man like me."

"No, it's – it was creative. As far as mutts go. Do you work with the Head Gamesmaker?"

"Galan? Regrettably so," Varno said. "Galan Greene is a shortsighted man who won't last all that much longer as Head Gamesmaker, I wager. He has too large a mouth for his job. Everyone knows what he likes and what he does. He hardly checked a single thing I added to the arena before giving it the go-ahead."

"Anything interesting?" I asked. If I couldn't manage a sponsorship out of Rensler, maybe I could at least get a tip on the arena."

He shrugged. "Plenty. But I'm not so interested in that. I'm a little more interested in why you're here. I've never sponsored a tribute in the Games."

_Damn you, Elan_. My nerves flared as I searched for a good answer. "I mean, Elan told me you're connected with the Games and everything. If you haven't sponsored before, maybe I can interest you? My mentors tell me it's a big thing for prestige and everything if a tribute wins, and I have a good feeling about Fenton this year."

"Your escort's connected with a bit more than the Games," he said. "Less names like yours and more like the ones of Julian Tercio and Cyrus Locke. Elan didn't send you here at all, I think. He and I both know who you've been spending time with, and it's not just your tributes. Creon sent you, didn't he?"

I gulped. "I don't know the president that well."

"I don't think he knows me well," Varno said with a smile. "And I don't think he knows you well. That's such a problem in a city like this."

He picked at his food again. "Everyone knows what he wants. Creon's afraid of following in his father's footsteps to an early grave. It's hard to avoid that when your ambitions don't live up to the dreams of those around you. Cyrus. Taurus Sharpe. Lucrezia Bierce. The president can't trust any of them, so he turns to you. Do you think he really trusts you, Terra, if he can't trust anyone else?"

My skin itched. I felt nervous, trapped here by a man who clearly knew more than he was letting on. President Snow had sent me here, and Varno had sniffed me out. "I don't really know what you want from me. I'm just trying to help. My tributes, whoever. The president."

"Of course. That's why he wants to trust you so badly. People like me have so many cards in our hands, and you only have a few. You're a common girl from the districts. You're a small player comparatively, but the smallest ears often hear the most."

He took a long drink of water. "As it turns out, yours aren't the smallest ears. I know the one person Creon trusts absolutely. I could tell you, if you make it worth my while – say, you clear his suspicions of me."

"I'm just here for my tributes. Tribute. I swear. I don't know any of this other stuff."

"You're not so good at this game, so I'll take that as a yes," he said. "It's a bit harder when you're not wielding a knife and wearing snakes, as the posters depict you."

He leaned forward. "His granddaughter. Calla Snow's daughter, Cassandra. She's only nine, but I have a feeling she hears more than any other nine year-old in Panem. As chance would have it, she's tutored by Taurus Sharpe's daughter, Bera, at the Sharpe estate. Make an excuse to go there and you might find more answers that Creon wants. I might try a better excuse than 'gathering sponsorships,' though. It wasn't very convincing."

"Why?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why a better excuse?'

"Why'd you even tell me any of that?" I asked. Lying to this man seemed futile. If he really knew as much as he claimed, I wanted to know his motive. "Or why would I want to follow up on something that president wants?"

Varno smirked. "I'm a man who keeps his reasons close to his chest, Terra. I think you want to be such a person, but you're a bit too obvious right now. You're young. Inexperienced, but you're willing to play. You want a reason? Call me intrigued. Now let me eat my lunch and go show me what you can do."


	47. The Lives That Matter

_**+ Big shout out to melliemoo for another solid review, along with my lovely guest's feedback! Comments and the like are always appreciated! Yay character building, 'cuz that's this chapter. Also very long.  
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"The boy's not gonna starve. Not in that brush. What he needs is a damn weapon, and we need to hold onto our money if he's gonna get one."

"He has a stick," I said, watching as Fenton struggled through the underbrush of the cloud forest. The fog made even watching his slow progress agonizing. It must have been hell to cut through it with little more than a tree branch for supplies. At least he wasn't going to run out of food any time soon: The Gamesmakers clearly didn't want our kids starving our dying of thirst, as water was everywhere in the jungle and food almost as abundant. Seemingly everything was edible, from the bark of the tall, winding trees whose branches criss-crossed in the jungle canopy like a wooden spider web to the fist-sized beetles that walked at a snail's pace along the forest floor. I'd given up worrying about Fenton's food situation after watching him eat his twentieth bug.

Daud was right about his protection, however. Fenton's escape from the Cornucopia may have saved his life, but it left him with nothing but what he could salvage. He'd made do with a knobbed length of wood, but it wouldn't do anything to any nasty beast that crossed his way – and less so if the beast came from Districts 1 or 2.

Finch frowned. "Isn't there something we can give him to make a fire? Everything's wet in there."

"Not much of a point," Daud scoffed.

"There's plenty of a point," she countered. "He's going to catch some nasty fungus or something if he can't keep his feet dry. Not to mention it's a confidence booster."

"It's been less than three days. He's not going to have a damn mushroom growing out of his head yet."

I guessed Finch sent me the blanket in last year's games. "Why don't we just wait a day, then?" I said. "It's almost seven." I felt uneasy opining on how to use our sponsorships given how I now knew how Daud did most of the heavy lifting. I hadn't mustered up the courage yet to tell him what I'd seen.

"Company," Daud growled, nodding at the screen.

I looked up as my heart skipped a beat. While I expected Brocade or the two from District 4 – Finnick's tributes had split off from 1 and 2 since the very beginning – what showed up wasn't any relief. Fenton heard it before he saw it. He crouched down low in the underbrush, hiding in the leaves of a giant fern and squinting up at the sky.

The giant mutt appeared made of shadow against the setting sun. It was a mammoth, scaled, bird creature, its body alone as large as a car, its talons scythes and its beak steel. Two glowing yellow eyes glared down at the rainforest below as its leathery wings whipped up cyclones among the treetops. One of its talons gripped something small and wriggling.

"Is that…" I started.

Finch flinched. "Don't look, Terra."

"Look all you want. Won't change anything," said Daud.

It wasn't over yet, but it would be soon. The girl from District 10 writhed, blood dripping from her side, her chest opened up to the bone. She was a mouse in an eagle's grasp, and no sooner did I press my hand to my mouth in shock than the beast flipped her up in the air, snatched her in its beak, and shook its head.

_Boom!_

Cicero applauded on a side screen, shouting, "That's the cannon we were waiting for! The big question, folks, is whether or not we're going to find all of Riley once the bird's done with her!"

As if on cue, a hovercraft leapt out from the cloud cover, dropping its invisibility screen and shooting a blast of lightning into the beast. The mutt howled and dropped whatever part of the girl from 10, Riley, it still clung to, turning instead on the hovercraft. The ship took no chances. It shot a flurry of rockets into the mutt, pluming fire across the beast's hide and sending it retreating to the rocky hills that formed the westernmost edge of the arena.

Fenton watched and sighed in relief. If he was horrified, he didn't show it. _Tough guy._

I shook off the gnawing nausea of witnessing Riley's gruesome demise. "I have to go. I'll be back later."

Finch perked up. "Wait. If you're doing sponsors, we should coordinate. I don't know if you should be going out on your own for that kind of thing yet."

"Let her go," Daud said, waving off her criticism. "Just let her go."

The ensuing argument gave me the perfect cover to slip out of our Control Center office. Thank goodness for Daud. I wasn't heading to gather sponsorships, and I certainly couldn't tell Finch where I _was_ going. I couldn't tell any of the other victors.

A thump from the door marked with a "10" startled me as I walked out into the common area. I had a feeling the girl's death had gutted Phoebe, and I took a step towards her office. If I was late to my meeting with Creon and his councilors, so be it.

A voice from behind stopped me: "That is a stupid idea."

Johanna Mason sat on the floor in a corner near District 7's office, her back to the wall, a bottle in her hand. She glowered. "I'm sure you'll do a great job making her feel better, squirt. 'Hey Phoebe, sorry your kid became bird chow. How about a nice chat? Maybe you can help me instead?'"

"I wasn't going to ask her that," I spat. "Is a little sympathy that painful?"

"You know, maybe it freaking is," said Johanna. "Given how uptight you got over Haymitch trying to crack a joke during the interviews, I bet you'd go in there and tell Phoebe she should've tried harder."

"Maybe I actually care more than just sitting on the floor, drinking, and taking it."

"Listen to me, squirt, you don't have a freaking clue what caring –"

"No, screw you! Maybe if you _did_ give a shit your tributes wouldn't have died at the Cornucopia and you'd be doing something besides sarcastically taking a dump on me!"

Johanna slammed her bottle down, scowled, and stood up just as the District 4 door opened. Finnick poked his head out. He creased his eyebrows and frowned. "Why don't you get out of here, Terra?"

"But –"

"Just go. Please."

I glanced between Johanna and Finnick before hightailing it away from the Control Center. Insecurity ate at me as a rode alone in a private car to the Presidential Mansion. From Drake to Johanna, it seemed more and more that whatever I was doing pushed the other victors away. Quintus and Lyric had acted cordial at best to me, and what if Johanna was right about Phoebe? What if I did only make things worse around her? How long until that annoyance spread to Finnick, Finch, and even Daud?

The Mansion didn't seem quite so bright, despite the spotlights arrayed around its perimeter and the glowing golden lines that ran up the second story to the top of the building's towers. I wasn't going here to look at lights. Creon – and the rest of his posse – wanted a report on what I'd found out about the other victors so far. That task had lingered in my jumbled thoughts since I'd arrived, running in and out between concerns over Fenton and Mari, interviews, and navigating Creon's own suspicions of his inner circle. I hadn't kept up with everything, and I didn't think they'd be happy with the results.

A Peacekeeper just escorted me to the great doors of the Assembly Hall when a stern voice inside called me in. The great room was a crowded place. The lightning helped: In the soft evening glow from the great crystal window, everyone around the meeting table cast shadows that rose as giants along the walls. Even the statues and artwork around the edge of the room loomed large in the milky light. Even with that, however, I felt as if I took the last available seat in the room. The people I'd grown accustomed to around Creon sat about the table in various states of tension, from Julian slumping forward on his elbows and looking irritated to blue-tattooed Lucrezia, as stoic as ever and pursuing her lips as she glanced my way. Taurus and Cyrus sat at the head of the room, to the right and left of the wide empty chair directly across from me. To my left sat a tall, warm-faced man I didn't recognize, a burly, bear-like fellow with a soft smile and slight eyes. He was a stark contrast from my other neighbor, the Head Gamesmaker Galan Greene, who perked up as soon as I entered the room with a look I could only describe as hungry.

The only man not sitting stood at the door to the glass window, one hand on his waist, the other across his chest. President Snow was rigid.

"Sit," he said without turning around. "Before she starts, finish what you were saying."

The warm-faced man sat back on his chair. When he spoke his voice was welcoming, calm yet confident in the face of the most powerful people in Panem. "Little problems out to the east. Maybe we should wait until a more private time?"

"I think Terra has bigger things on her mind then what's happening out east. Go on."

"Little bit of a quarantine scare in District 12. Two new infected. We scrounged up an isolation team before they got around the public and quartered them away. The pox keeps coming back when we thought we've stamped it out. It's not natural."

Creon turned at last, frowning. "That's enough. Speculation we can save for later."

I bit my lip. District 12 didn't sound like it was in good shape, even for its standards. I'd heard enough about Panem's smallest district from Ember, Haymitch, and Elan, not to mention seeing it during the Victory Tour, to get a grasp on the place's everyday hardships. Still, I couldn't imagine some unknown disease ravaging District 5. That, however, was a train of thought I _definitely_ wouldn't bring up around these people.

Creon sat down across from me, sitting back and folding his hands in his lap. "Terra. You're familiar with most people here. To your left's Rigel Taira, Captain-General of the Peacekeepers. As long you're here, you might as well get to know everyone."

He gave me a subtle smile, a small thing, but one that felt more legitimate than the other expressions staring my way. For a Peacekeeper – for the number one Peacekeeper, at that – he didn't give such a bad first impression.

"I'm sorry about your loss at the Cornucopia," Creon went on. "It's a hard thing to stomach when someone dies on your watch."

"More of a natural thing really. Not like we're taking sides or anything," Galan Greene interrupted. "What a great fight it was at the Cornucopia though, wasn't it Terra? If I have to say one thing over these past few days –"

"Galan," Taurus said, his voice at once softer and so much more thunderous than the Head Gamesmaker's. "Save your recap for the press."

The Head Gamesmaker rolled his eyes and folded his arms. "Well, now that we have someone else in here who actually has a stake in the Games, unlike _you_ –"

"Then you can now find plenty of things to talk about once we're through with business," Taurus finished for him.

Galan gave up as Lucrezia started at me: "Has your little on-air spat with the Odair boy led to anything?"

My words failed me, and when I finally summoned my courage to speak, my voice cracked. "I – no."

"Why?"

"He – doesn't want to talk to me, I guess. We haven't gotten off to a good start."

Lucrezia lowered her face. "He hasn't give you any reason to correct that? Nor his father?"

"Finnick? No, Finnick's fine."

"How has he convinced you of that?"

Something about the long, formal way Lucrezia phrased things made me anxious. "He's always been nice to me. Nice enough, at least."

"He's been nice to a thousand other women in this city, too," said Julian, smirking.

"Why are they so important?" I blurted out. I regretted it immediately, fearing Taurus or one of the others would smack me down.

Cyrus glanced towards Creon and spoke up: "District 4 needs a softer touch. Have you met District 1's mentors?"

"Lyric and Quintus? Yeah."

"They're not the only ones from 1 here. The siblings Cashmere and Gloss, several others, they're all here. 2, 6, the other districts that win a lot, they also send most of their victor contingent every year. 4 doesn't. In fact, they only ever send two mentors. Most stay behind, and back home, they're hard to track down."

Rigel coughed. "There's two victors in particular I never hear about from my commanders in District 4. They might as well not exist, they do such a good job staying under the radar. One's Annie Odair, FInnick's wife."

"Well, wonder why," Galan laughed.

"Madness is an excellent cover for a schemer," Lucrezia rebutted. "The Odair woman has had more than twenty-five years to get over her Hunger Games. I hardly think we can believe she is still 'mad.'"

"Some things are hard to get over," Cyrus said, shrugging.

"And some prey on that sympathy," Lucrezia said. "She was savvy enough once to emerge from the 70th Hunger Games."

"Beg pardon, but I wouldn't call what happened in there savvy."

"The point," Rigel said through gritted teeth. "Isn't if Annie is faking whether or not she's insane as some cover-up for a conspiracy. The point is that another victor in District 4's managed to show nothing at all. Her name's Brooke, Terra. Brooke Larson, won ten, fifteen years ago. I've had people search her home while she's been out. Bug it. Nothing. She's very evasive, and she's never once showed up to the Capitol, not even the year after she won. Even I don't know anyone who she talks with, except one family. When Drake was still a young boy in the few years after Brooke one, she took turns with Annie taking care of the kid during the times Finnick would be out. Drake's here. Finnick's here."

"So you want me to ask them about some mysterious victor?" I said. "Who…I don't remember?"

"What you need to do," Taurus said. He'd been too quiet through this whole thing. "Is earn their trust. By the sound of it, you have a lot of work to do there."

I clamped my eyes and mouth shut. "I'm trying."

"Do a little more than try. If you can do more than try for your tributes, you can do more than try for real responsibility."

"That's enough," Creon said. "She understands."

Silence settled over the table until Julian finally, mercifully broke it: "I had an interesting conversation with Phoebe Dustin from District 10 two days ago. In between her yammering over sponsoring her children, she mentioned she's gotten to know you. Anyone else interesting who doesn't come from a district that reeks of fish?"

"Phoebe?" Galan snorted before I had a chance to reply. "I didn't think she'd go for your type."

"Oh, I didn't sleep with her, you depraved lech," said Julian. "We don't all worship in the bedsheets like you. Wasted money, though. I saw what happened earlier."

My gut dropped. Julian had money, and that still hadn't done a damn thing for Phoebe. It made me think of Daud all the sudden: How many times had he done something horrible for an eager Capitol audience, all in order to rake in sponsorship money wasted on tributes who died from a bit of bad luck or circumstance? It made what Taurus had said sound even more real: I could go about gathering sponsorships all day and still fail to do anything meaningful. At least here I was in the know. No matter how much Lucrezia's smirk or Taurus's stony glare unnerved me, these were people making real decisions of real impact.

Something stirred inside me with that thought.

"I met with Johanna earlier," I said. Anger still stirred when I pictured her jeering at me after Riley's death.

"And?" Creon asked.

"I think she was going to fight me. Every time I've talked to her, she's made out everything here – in the Capitol, yeah – to be a joke. I wouldn't put it past her to be up to something."

"That is no evidence," Lucrezia scoffed. "That is nothing we did not know already."

"Johanna has more reason to be mad than most," Creon said softly, turning away. "My father had her family killed."

He glanced back at me and set his jaw. "If he were still ruling, you wouldn't be here. You'd be sleeping with some rich man tonight, making my father money and influence. That's what he wanted Johanna to do. When she refused, he responded. It was an arbitrary decision from a shortsighted ruler."

I sat back in my chair as far as I could. Suddenly I felt bad for jumping down Johanna's throat. _What in the hells._

"Still," Creon went on. "The man Johanna should be mad at is dead. She's had decades to stew on this. Like 4, District 7's an easy place to get lost in. Keep an eye on her." Creon waved his hand at the table. "We're done for tonight. Leave me."

I moved to hurry out of the room, but Creon stopped me. "You. Stay."

When the others filed out and the doors closed once more, Creon turned back to the table. He looked less in charge now and more tired, his shoulders slumping just a bit and the lines on his face more pronounced. "I meant it when I said I'm sorry about your girl. Mari, her name was, right?"

I nodded, unsure of what to say. By now I didn't doubt his honesty in such an admission.

"When I was younger and administering District 2, I knew the name of every Peacekeeper officer under me," Creon went on. He stared down into the table, his gaze fading off into dead space. "One in particular had connections. His name was Aemillius, and he had a rather famous family connection. He'd trained for the Hunger Games his whole life in District 2's academy, and his sister had actually been Reaped. She won. I don't know if you met Enobaria, but if you have, you've met Aemillius's younger sister."

"He was envious. I don't know if I could blame him, but he did a good job as an officer, and I was happy with his work. I recommended him to take over the spot as the lieutenant captain of District 8. Three months later, the district rioted."

Creon grinned, a wry, hard, harsh smile, not a grin of happy reminiscence but one of veiled regret. "A lot of people died in that riot. It was the worst in a generation. It was worse when the rioters overtook one of the garrison's outposts and commandeered a mortar. I don't know how they learned to use it, but they did, and Aemillius got caught by the very first shell. After it was all done and my father sent me to 8 to supervise the cleanup, I saw his body. Couldn't even recognize him. All bits and bones and parts most would rather never see."

"I sent him out there and he died after my recommendation. I imagine it's no different training children to face death. I can't say I know what you're thinking or feeling, but I understand the impact. Death is death, and when it's our responsibility to make sure it doesn't happen, it's worse. The failure's on the one who put someone in a position to die."

He smiled again. "So maybe I do know. Or maybe Galan does. I guess we're the ones who put all those children in a place to die. Nothing like a bit of morbidity to keep you grounded."

I wringed my hands and nodded. I didn't know what to say. While I couldn't _really_ blame Creon for Mari's death, he did let the Hunger Games go on. Still, I found it hard to condemn a man so willing to be open to me.

"I heard you met with Rensler," Creon said. "Anything interesting?"

"He figured out you sent me," I said in a small voice. "He said to go talk to Taurus's kids, that they might know something. He was cagey."

Creon sighed. "Follow up on that advice. Varno's too smart a man to approach directly, I suppose. The Sharpes? I always liked Bera. Taurus's daughter, good girl. My granddaughter's a big fan of hers. I don't know what Rensler wants you to find, but don't tip him off that you know any better. Give it a look."

The air had cooled by the time I stepped out back onto the street outside the Mansion. I felt too uneasy to go hunt down sponsorships after all that. As much as I feared stepping in front of all those people, those questioning, probing eyes belonging to the rulers who had the real ability to hurt me in so many ways, it was a thrill. I could look around at the other victors and see sad faces, expressions of despair and histories of failure and depression. Drunk Haymitch, sarcastic Johanna, whatever Daud was – they were all wearing the veil of victory to cover up the darkness inside. None of them had ever gone beyond tromping for sponsorships and hoping for maybe, maybe, a chance to bring someone home to join them in their misery. How many had ever done what I just had?

If this was circumstance, maybe I wasn't so unlucky after all.

"Terra," a voice popped up from behind as I trooped down the street. "In such a hurry after that?"

I whipped around to find Galan Greene shuffling up. "I probably should get back," I stammered. The Head Gamesmaker was the person from around that table I _least_ wanted to see more of. "It's a good time to go out."

"Maybe you want company?"

I recoiled. _Ick_. "I don't think – that'd probably be biased, right?"

"Oh, who cares?" he laughed. "It's all entertainment. Your boy's doing just fine in the arena, if I remember right. Lots of fun coming up. I'll make sure he's around for a while to see it through. Why don't we just make something happen tonight instead of you going off to shake hands with some strangers, huh? I mean, we know each other…"

"Galan. Not exactly appropriate," said a thick voice from behind me.

The Head Gamesmaker forced a smile. "Cyrus. Right now? You know what that is?"

"A little human decency?" Cyrus said, coming up behind me and putting a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sure Cashmere or someone is lonely. You might even have a game to attend to."

Galan waved him off and retreated down the street. After he was gone, I let out my breath and said, "Thanks."

"He likes you," said Cyrus.

"I think the Head Gamesmaker likes anyone without anything between their legs."

Cyrus chuckled. "Not him. Although you're probably right. But the President. He likes you."

"I don't know why."

He pointed up to a poster on a nearby skyscraper across from the Mansion. It was another one of me, tagged with some stupid slogan and snakes curling around my half-naked body. It made me feel violated just looking at it. "You could've ended up like that," Cyrus said. "Or you could've ended up like Annie Cresta. Odair. But you didn't. Here you are, intact, sane. Your tribute died at the Cornucopia, your first one, and you're still able to handle meeting with the most powerful people in the country."

"Lots of victors could do that. I just got the chance."

"Lots of victors? Beg pardon, I've seen lots of victors. Lots of them are shells. No people inside."

"For good reason."

"Not arguing the morality of the Games. I'm no fan of them either. Come."

Cyrus led me into Caro's Gardens. It was a strange place here in the evening, empty except for us. The reflecting pool was dark and mysterious, no longer glistening with beauty but inviting actual reflection. The many strange plants loomed so much higher in the shadow and darkness, their leaves no longer green and red but black and ominous. The gravel walkways weaved between foreboding blackness beyond, but the loneliness, the silence, made me want to stay here longer. It was peaceful, even in its darkness.

"President Snow's a tough man to relate to," Cyrus said.

"I think I get him."

"Do you?" Cyrus said. He stopped me in front of a giant flowering tree, full of flowers larger than my head, turned into spindly, misshapen, dark specters by the night "You know your father?"

"Yeah."

"Was he a good man?"

"Well, I mean – maybe. Not to me. He didn't really want me."

Cyrus nodded. "I knew Coriolanus Snow better than anyone. He had good ideals, and he treated me well. I wouldn't be here if not for him. But he had enough bad ways in going about things that anyone could think him a monster. I know that. He was also the most powerful person in the history of this country. He crushed two riots. He ruled over forty years. And he's been dead a little over a year and a half. That's how long Creon's had to follow in his footsteps, to learn who to trust and who not to after spending most of his adult life in the field managing the districts. He's stepped into the shoes of a giant, shoes he wants to change, and he's had barely eighteen months to turn them around. Maybe luck did put you here. I know it put me here, because I'm just another boy from District 1. But we're here regardless, standing here underneath the Snow family's palace, both of us sitting at the table of a man who's trying to follow in his father's footsteps, even if he hates the steps taken already. Creon's blunt, but he's the best thing we have to making a better country. If that means he trusts you, then you can do some real good. Not just by attending to victors and tributes and whatever else Lucrezia would tell you to do, but by actually diving face-first into the mud here in the Capitol."

I shook my head. "Look, I don't mind having to do this, but I want to keep my tributes alive. That's the number one thing. My boy, Fenton, is still in the arena. That's what matters to me."

"That so?" asked Cyrus. "Then why aren't you sleeping with every man in town for a buck? Some victors do that."

"That's – I'm not going to do that."

"You said it. The number one thing is keeping your tributes alive."

"Not if I'm going to kill myself to do it! I mean, yes, I'll do what I have to, but –"

"Think!" Cyrus said, gripping my shoulders. "How many years will you live? Eighty? Ninety, given Capitol medicine? More? How many times will you win in the Games? District 5's won seven or eight times overall in the ninety-six past years. Even if you turn your home into the best of the districts, you'll witness so many more failures than successes in mentoring. That's a crapshoot, Terra."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Act! It's been forever since we've seen a leader with real vision for the long-term future for the country. Now we have that. You're in the center of it, you, me, all of us. If we just focus on what makes us feel right, we won't solve anything."

"And what's this future?"

Cyrus sucked in his breath. "Creon will end all of this. Not just the Hunger Games. The Districts. The partitions. Everything. He's a smart man, smart enough to realize what the best method is for growing Panem from a country that treads water into one that will recapture the glory of whatever came before. As much as I respected Coriolanus Snow, he never had this vision."

"All I hear him talk about is laws and stuff."

"And where do you think the foundation comes from? The Hunger Games? Executing people like Johanna Mason's family? When there's real law, real rule in Panem, a system that everyone knows and can believe in, that will be the day we don't have to have this kind of talk any more. If the president trusts you, Terra, you have to understand the kind of responsibility you have. Every great leader needs support."

"And what do you want?" I burst out. "You keep putting it all on me! What about you? Or Julian or Taurus or whoever else?"

Cyrus paused, rubbed his chin, and said, "I can't speak for them. But I'm an old man. I never had a family. Wanted one at one point, but I thought it'd be better not to have that risk. Before I die, I want to see someone like me who feels comfortable to take a few risks in life."

I stepped back. "I don't think the president's a bad man. But there are actual lives depending on me. Not just hypothetical ones. If you tell me to do something I'll do it, but right now I have to worry about Fenton. He's in the arena. For all I know, he could be dying right now. I have to worry about him. I'm sorry."


	48. Victors

_**+ Thanks again to my lovely guest and melliemoo for another pair of wonderful reviews! It's always a great feeling to know others are enjoying reading along – and don't worry about Drake, haha, he has quite a big role to play in all of this as we move further and further along.**_

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The kids from 1 and 2 were arguing again.

Cerise from 1 had skewered a rabbit-like creature to cook. Ignoring the fire to relieve herself hadn't been the best idea, however: The lighter fluid District 2's mentors had sent in to start a blaze in the wet conditions of the cloud forest had blazed hot and fast, enough to engulf the rabbit in an inferno by the time Cerise got back. Now it smoked on the damp earth, a charred, blackened ruin, as Brocade berated her.

Daud snorted, "Sure no one saw that comin'."

"Why do they team up every year?" I said. It was cold in our Control Center office, and with only Daud and the Games for company, it was dull. "Except last year. Of course."

"Didn't work so good not teaming up last year," said my mentor, shrugging and swishing around a cup of pungent coffee.

"Ha. Acheron didn't seem like the sort for teams."

"Wasn't. Most don't think like that. Want to improve their odds against everyone else not from 1, 2, or 4."

"I know _that_, but –"

"So why ask?"

"'Cuz it's still dumb. Like it's not totally obvious the alliance is going to break down when it happens every other year."

Daud slumped his shoulders and sighed. "Results're proof enough. One-in-six odds're better than one-in-twenty-four."

"Mutts can still do it. Or someone else can sneak up and kill one of them anyway."

"It's a game of chicken. Years they team up, each of 'em's confident enough they'll be the first to move on the others and get the upper hand. When you're that confident you take risks. And if you are the first one to move and you shank the others in their sleep after you've killed off most of the arena, you have all the best supplies and much less and probably weaker competition. Easy route to winnin' right there."

He sucked on the dregs of his coffee. "If you're one of them morally superior people it's not a very good strategy, but they don't come out of the arena often anyway. Finch lectured me on numbers and game theory one day. Guess a little stuck."

"That still doesn't make _total_ sense," I protested as Brocade slapped his hand against a tree and swore at the girl from 2 to the gasps of Cicero and Caesar Flickerman. "If everyone in the alliance knows what everyone else is thinking, then that strategy's useless."

Daud pointed at the television. "You're watching it."

Cerise from District 1 had pulled a sword on her district partner, waving the weapon in his face and shouting at him to back off. The girl from District 2 pulled a knife and it was on. Achilles stood back watching as Brocade kicked the girl from in the shins, making her stumble before he swung wildly with his axe. Cerise blocked the swing, but she wasn't quick enough to counter his punch to her face. She reeled back, ducking behind a tree as Brocade swung again with his weapon.

The girl from 2 darted in, looking to stab Brocade but only managing to slice his arm as he wheeled on her. He cursed and threw her aside. Before Cerise could close, Brocade swung his axe high over his head and brought it down with a sickening _thunk_ into the girl from 2's skull.

Achilles, watching, raised an eyebrow.

Cerise howled and lunged. Her district partner backpedaled, blocking her sword strike with the haft of his axe and shoving her back. The two grappled hand-to-hand, punching, spitting and clawing at each other. Cerise bit Brocade's hand, and the boy swore and dropped his axe. She fell back and swung, but he caught her sword hand and backed her into a tree. Cerise groaned and strained against the force of his grip, but her district partner was stronger. In a final push, Brocade pulled the sword up to his chest and forced it towards his district partner. Cerise's eyes darted nervously. Sweat popped out across her forehead as the blade drew closer.

Brocade grunted and shoved the edge against her throat.

Crimson sprayed the tree's bark.

I frowned. The blood and violence didn't even shock me anymore. It felt routine, expected. I didn't feel a thing for Cerise and the girl from 2, perhaps a bit of optimism for Fenton's chances with two of his bigger threats out of the way. It was a sickening rationalization, but a pragmatic one. Little by little, I was accepting that what happened in that arena was beyond my control.

It was numbing, calming, even.

"Same old," Daud muttered.

"Is that how it feels after a while?" I asked with a sudden burst of confidence.

"You've watched 'em before you came here. You should know."

I hesitated. On a side screen, Fenton clawed through the underbrush, clutching a sac we'd sent him that he'd filled with our canteen and the roots and nuts he'd scrounged up. His best weapon still was only a sharp obsidian chunk: Despite my protests, Finch had rebuffed every push to send him a weapon yet. "He needs other things first," she'd said over and over.

Fenton, however, wasn't on my mind. The blood fest moved me to admit something I wasn't sure it was a good idea to reveal.

"No," I said. "I mean actual killing. Not watching it."

"Watchu mean?"

I sucked in a deep breath. "Someone – someone told me that you're not just talking to people to get sponsorships. That you're – you're fighting people, killing them even."

He put down his cup and looked at me. He narrowed an eye. "Elan didn't just tell you."

"He might've shown me."

"Prying prick. And don't you start. It brings in more than Finch ever could hope to."

"Daud, do you realize what you're doing? I want Fenton to win too, but I'm not going to kill people for him! I don't know if Finch knows, but you're not –"

"Leave it."

"I know you might think-"

Daud hurled his cup into the wall, shattering it into a thousand shards. "Leave it!" he roared.

His eyes had turned to coals, his face etched with crimson anger. I shrank into my seat. Daud stormed towards the far wall, slamming a fist against it and leaning his forehead against the slate. Guilt drummed up in my gut: I hadn't meant to provoke him, but there I went again, souring another relationship all because I said something dumb.

"Leave everything fucking alone," he snarled over his shoulder.

I huddled against my seat and wrapped my arms around my chest. "Two people prying into my damn life was enough," said Daud. "Now I've got three. The gods are just laughing at me. Even winning these damn Hunger Games makes things worse. I can't even get one quiet year without someone calling me a monster. Like I don't already know that."

"I don't think that," I said, my voice little more than a whisper.

He scoffed. "'Course you do. You never would've brought it up if you didn't. And you think it's just avoxes, who're gonna die whether or not I'm the one swingin' the sword." He looked over his shoulder with a grimace. "You think it's so bad running around doing whatever the hell you're doing for the higher-ups. They haven't killed any of your people yet."

"Mari's dead."

"Screw her, she's a poor bastard but a tribute. Knew that had to happen." Daud sat down on the floor and slumped against the wall. "You're never gonna stop asking, are you? You and your damn question, always wanting to know everything."

"I just want to help."

He scowled and stared at the wall. "Killed my first one when I was seventeen. Not even in the Games yet. Not an avox, not a tribute, not a Peacekeeper. None of that. Found it easy ever since. Not that hard to kill someone."

I made to stand up and approach him, thought better of it, and pulled back into my seat again. "Who was he?"

"Not he. They. Two little shits from Redhammer. I actually loved someone once, when I was dumb and didn't know any better. Bet that baffles your mind. She was a good girl, one I loved, year older than me. Her mom got in a spot of trouble, couldn't pay things off, so she took on her debt. Then she couldn't pay the debts off, so these two punks came along. Debt collectors they were, paid by some small-time crime boss in the tunnels. They didn't even give here a chance to explain. Just broke into her house one night and stabbed her with a stone knife. Broke it off in her body. Word from her mother has it they just walked away, talking about what to eat later. Just like that."

Shadows flickered across Daud's face. "So I did the same thing. Paid what little money I had to find out who'd done it. Closure means more than forgiveness. Found one sleeping, snapped his neck. Caught the other right after he'd poured a bath. Forced his head under the water and held it there 'til he stopped wriggling. Held it a little longer to make sure."

He stuck out his chin. "You think it's so bad to kill people. So wrong. It's all I've known how to do well for more than half my life. Don't you tell me otherwise."

"I _am_ telling you otherwise. You have a choice in this."

He shook his head. "You and Finch are the only things I've accomplished in twenty-five years. Only kinda thing I can accomplish. Don't know any other way to go about doin' that, so don't take that away from me. I can't persuade anyone. I can't lay with these people. I can't play their games of intrigue. If doin' what I do means you have to hate me, so be it. Some of us are born to be hated."

"I don't hate you."

"Doesn't matter. Kept someone alive who didn't have to die. Better than nothin', even if it meant killin' people who would've died anyway."

**/ / / / /**

The Training Center Commons was a strange floor.

I'd tromped off from work after Daud's admission, unable to sit in the same room any longer. I had no idea what to say to the man. He didn't want sympathy, and no matter how hard I tried to convince him of my sincerity, he refused to do anything but wallow in his station. I had meant what I said: I didn't hate him. I wished he'd see things otherwise, but he was my mentor. He'd done his part to get me out of the arena alive, so I owed him at least my support. Whether or not he wanted to accept that was up to him.

So I'd ended up here, the Training Center floor between District 1's base and the atrium that I'd missed up to this point. I'd come searching…what? Company? I wasn't sure.

Perhaps I'd expected a crowd, but I didn't get one. It was quiet in here, despite the attempts at making a cheery interior. The Commons was smaller than District 5's floor, only a single room as large as our den and our dining room put together. A series of couches ringed the room, along with a trio arranged around a table in the middle. Three colossal television screens hung on a wall opposite floor-to-ceiling windows that looked over the Forum. Cicero and Caesar talked animatedly on one of them, with the other two showing footage from inside the arena – one focusing on the two from District 4 as the boy nursed a shoulder wound, while the other showed Achilles tromping after Brocade through the misty jungle.

With a few of the districts knocked out of the Hunger Games entirely already, I expected more people here. Instead, only Lyric and Quintus greeted me, the two seated around the central table, a trio of half-full bottles and a handful of glasses between them. Green, yellow, and blue cards scattered about on the table between spilled drink.

"Our new victor approaches!" Quintus hiccupped. "Have you enjoyed the latest Hunger Games? The vivid struggle between life and death, the viridian arena full of dangers and mystery, the pride and prestige of being a victor? The secret formula to it all…sitting around drinking and playing cards."

"And waxing poetic," said Lyric, tossing a card on the table.

"What're you doing?" I asked, slumping into a couch opposite them.

Quintus waved his hand over the table. "Certainly not playing cards and drinking!"

"Gimme that," I said, yanking the bottle away and filling a glass to the brink. The brown liquor slammed my nose immediately, but I didn't care. A drink was the least I needed.

"Surprised," said Lyric.

"At what?"

"That you drink."

I snorted and tipped the glass back. It stung my throat. "Whatever. How'd you play?"

"Now she's betting. You're a poor influence," Quintus chided his district partner. "Each card has a value from one to eight. You get a hand of ten Positive cards increase you, negative decreases. Deal 'em one at a time to each player, and you can either play one from your hand, wait for the next round of dealing, or stand and call it for the round. Closest to twenty-five wins the round. You go over, you lose automatically. If it's a draw, you do it over. First to three wins takes the match. Only get to keep the same hand for the entire match, so do play it carefully."

"You're gonna take all my money if we bet," I pouted.

Lyric snorted. "Not enough to blow on strippers?"

"It's her first year now. We have time to corrupt her," said Quintus. "Drink harder. You're way behind. We've been here an hour and a half."

He didn't have to tell me. I didn't know where Quintus and Lyric had gotten all the alcohol from, but it never ended. Three drinks passed in what felt like no time at all, and my head wobbled before I'd even grasped the card game. Cicero, Caesar, Brocade, Achilles, and whoever else was on the screens blended into a whirl of green and gray on the wall.

"We're going to lose. A huge difference that makes," said Quintus, slurring his words as he dealt cards half onto the floor. "I was Phoebe-sized when Brocade first started training, yah? I think he pissed himself the first time he watched someone punch another at the training academy back home. You were there Lyric, huh?"

She shook her head and leaned back on the couch. "Sheesh, too long ago."

"Complainer! And to think you have a voice in who gets picked to volunteer," said Quintus, swirling his drink before gulping it down. "Keep forgetting you're here, Terra. Talk more so I don't."

I giggled into my fifth glass. "What'mi s'posed to say?"

"Guys want to be entertained," Lyric said, stifling a belch. "Especially Quintus, because he has a brain like a peanut."

"I'd think it's tastier than that," said Quintus. "Tell us something you've done. Or haven't done."

"I haven't done a lot."

"Terrible story! You need to get out more."

"Then get me out."

Quintus looked up with bulging eyes. "That's a g-great idea! You're a prophet. We should go see the Gamesmakers right now."

"Right now," I laughed, gulping down the glass and pouring more. "Yup."

"I slept with Galan Greene once," Lyric said, wobbling as she tried to stand up. She fell back down onto the couch and pushed off against Quintus's arm to stabilize herself. "He was like a walrus. Those big tusked animals books talk about."

"What the heck is a walrus?" I slurred, managing to stand up just enough to get on two feet. "You made that up."

"Book said it. I haven't seen one. Zoos're supposed to have them here."

I stood up, struggled to find my balance, and puffed out my chest. "I'm Johanna Mason," I said, stumbling towards the door. "I specialize in trees, and you all are idiots. I'm going to the zoo without you. The walruses – walri – are mine. So long, squirts."

I stumbled into the door just as it opened. My head fell into Drake's chest as he stepped out. He caught me as I tilted backwards, my glass falling to the floor and shattering.

"What the –" he started. "Oh. Oh god."

"You!" I giggled, trying to wriggle out of his grip. "You can't come. You're the bad guy."

Drake looked towards Quintus and Lyric. "What'd you two give her?"

Quintus snorted. "Who knows? I – I'm a bad guy, right Lyric? We should be bad guys together."

Lyric laughed and keeled over. "Don't – I'm going to barf on you."

"Barf on him!" I said, waving my hand towards Drake. I ended up swatting the air. "Don't fish barf?"

"Uh, no," said Drake, laying me on the couch. "This is insane. What did I step into?"

"She probably thinks you're pretty," Quintus mumbled, his eyes fluttering. "Right Terra?"

I laughed. "Ew! He's hairy!"

"That's what I get for shaving," murmured Drake. "Yeesh. This is a disaster scene. Go to sleep, Terra."

"Mmm," I mumbled, pawing at the cushions. "I don't listen to you."

"Yeah, that's obvious. I'm getting out of here. Go to sleep."

Sleep came easy.


	49. Children

_**+ Terra back on the intrigue hunt for this chapter. Thanks again to all the people reading and following along!**_

**/ / / / /**

I hid my face in my hands, clamped my eyes shut, and did my best to drown out the noise. Reducing Finch's criticisms to an annoying hum was the best I could do to nurse my headache.

"Are you even listening? Terra, stop trying to hide and look at me," said my mentor, a little louder this time. I looked up and scowled as she lectured on. "I get it. I get that it's hard. That's not an excuse to shut your brain off and stop thinking."

"I just got drunk. Daud gets drunk. Haymitch gets drunk," I muttered.

She snorted. "And do you want to end up like that?"

"Why's it such a big deal what I do in private?"

"Because it's not private! All it takes is one enterprising person to stumble upon your drunk, passed-out body and suddenly everyone can know about it. Caesar and Cicero can plaster it on the television. Do you think about who you are? You aren't a nobody."

"It was the _Training Center_, Finch, sheesh. I don't think even Drake wants to screw me over for no reason to that level."

Finch grabbed my arm. "Maybe it's not Drake next time. Just because you're starting to fit in with a little group doesn't mean every victor's decent. Some wouldn't bat an eyelash at taking advantage of a drunk girl. Hey – don't walk away."

I headed for the office door as quickly as I could. "Going to try for sponsorships again," I mumbled. "With Elan."

"Elan's with the other escorts. He told you that earlier. That's what I'm saying –"

"Then I'm just going!" I shouted, retreating out the door and slamming it behind me before Finch could get in another word.

I knew I was bringing this on myself. The more I hid from her, the worse her questioning would become – but I couldn't tell her the things that circled around the inside of my head. She couldn't understand how desperately I needed an outlet, hells, someone just to _share_ with. If that meant getting drunk with near-strangers in the other victors my age, so be it. She'd had two decades to get accustomed to this. I'd had less than a year.

Beyond that, I especially couldn't tell her where I was actually going.

Parting rich fools and their money was the last thing on my mind. I had more to do than just being a victor, and Varno Rensler's counsel had me searching for a couple new faces in the Capitolian crowd. He'd told me to search out Taurus Sharpe's daughter and Creon's granddaughter at the Sharpe estate, but I didn't have any good excuse to show up there out of the blue. I certainly couldn't waltz up to any guards and charm my way in. Fortunately, I'd relied on connections to help me out.

Julian Tercio hadn't been happy to see me when I'd cornered him in the Presidential Mansion the day after my evening report. "Of all the times you can stop by for a chat, you choose now," he'd bemoaned beneath a bronze statue of some old, dead president in a forlorn hallway. "I've had enough of sponsorship pitches for the summer, if that's what you're here for."

"You probably flushed your money down a sewer pipe. And I'm not here for it," I'd said. "I doubt you're that eager to get back to whatever work you do anyway."

"Do you know how stressful it is ensuring the idiots of this city don't crash a hovercraft into the lake at least once a week?" he'd contested. "The president pays me well for good service. Last month someone's villa extravaganza backed up the pipes in the underground for a square mile. For a week shit rained, and shit reigned. I've earned that money you accuse me of flushing. Keeping the city running is a twenty-four hour job. I can't ignore it."

"Mm-hmm. Scintillating."

"I was actually going to go gambling. What is it?"

I had to give props to the man for his strange sense of humor. At least one person on the president's council could make a joke. "Sounds fun. I'm trying to find the president's granddaughter. Cassandra? I want to meet her."

Julian snorted. "A bit young to cajole for money?"

"I'm not looking for money, dammit."

"A joke. You might try them out some time. But you didn't choose a great spot for this conversation, even though we're in the bowels of this boring building."

I sighed. "I'm just trying to meet her. The president and Calla both dote on her from what I hear, so…"

"Not a very good lie," he scoffed. "But far from me to dissuade someone's intrigue. I'm not going to set you up, if that's the question. Especially since she's nine, and probably doesn't understand what 'setting up' means."

"That's gross. And I just want to get to know her. I can't really go up to the president and be like, 'Hey, introduce me,' though."

"So…"

"I heard Taurus's daughter tutors her at their villa. I need an excuse to go there."

He laughed. "Your hovercraft broke down and you couldn't find a bathroom."

"Seriously."

"There aren't good excuses. That's a terrible idea, even if most people around here know you. If you're trying not to be suspicious for whatever reason you want to get to know the president's granddaughter, that's an easy way to look suspicious. You might try on subtlety. I've conveniently forgotten when you went charging into fights in the arena, sword held high."

"Probably because it didn't happen. That's a dumb strategy."

"That's a tactic, not a strategy."

"Whatever. What's your idea, then?"

He frowned. "Run into her by accident, of course."

"Hm?"

"Weekday afternoons in the summer, Bera Sharpe tutors Cassandra after lunch in Caro's Gardens. Humidity and exotic flora go well with education, apparently. You might try a stroll. Random chance has a way of making things work like that."

It was a better idea than wandering up to the Sharpe estate without a clue, and I could get into the Presidential Mansion without more than a few words. The Gardens were as beautiful as ever. Birds with two-foot long tails of emerald and blue feathers squawked from atop the branches of white-barked trees. Bright orange fish dashed around the reflecting pool, tiny tangerine darts flitting in and out of the sun's glare on the water. It was quiet, quieter than the previous times I'd walked the loose stone paths through the plants, and much less crowded. Only a few people dotted the garden here and there, barely diverting my gaze as I strolled by.

_Swish!_ Leaves fluttered nearby. A tired, deep woman's voice said, "Stop. Cass, I have things to do and we have to get through this. Put those away and find someone else to play with later. Bug your mom."

"She doesn't wanna."

"I don't care. I'm not here to play."

I pushed aside a branch and nearly stumbled into a harried-looking young woman leaning against a tree, arms folded, lips curled down in a frown. Her curly black hair jostled as she started at my arrival. She was long, lean, and by her bony, gaunt face, I could tell who her father was immediately. Bera Sharpe was hard to miss, but Cassandra Snow was the spitting image of her grandfather. She had his square jaw, his serious eyes and narrow eyebrows, even his same thin, pursed lips. Long blonde hair and short stature aside, she resembled Creon far more than Calla did.

In temperament she did not: Cassandra's angry grimace disappeared the second she laid eyes on me. The girl dropped a long wooden pole she was whacking a branch with and rushed forward two steps, only stopped by Bera's stiff hand.

"Cass!" chided Bera, before turning to me with a bewildered expression. "Terra Pike? Why're you here?"

I hadn't thought about what to say _after_ finding these two. For that matter, I didn't know what to do next. Neither Rensler nor the president had given me much direction in that department. "I, um…I had a meeting with a few people. Needed a breather. Didn't want to go back to watching the arena –"

"Why not?" Cassandra interrupted. "It's been so good so far! When Cerise – she was my favorite, of course, until you know – fought off that dog in the jungle, I was thinking things were gonna be bad, so I wanted to turn it off, but –"

"Take a breath!" Bera pleaded. "Cass! Let us talk, okay?"

Cassandra folded her arms and frowned. A light went on in Bera's eyes as she did, and Taurus's daughter looked quickly back and forth between me and Creon's granddaughter. "You know what? Don't really care why you're here, Terra. Why don't you hang out with Cassandra a bit, huh? She keeps wanting to learn to swordfight, and I have no idea what goes into it. She's not listening to whatever I'm trying to teach right now, anyway."

"I don't really know how to either –" I started to say, but I hardly finished my sentence before Cassandra opened her mouth excitedly.

Bera cut her off and pulled me aside. "I actually have a splitting headache, and if I stick around for another minute, I'm going to kill the next person I see. How about you don't tell my dad I've run off with Calla, and I'll owe you later sometime, hm?"

_Fortune favors the randomly lucky! _"Um, sure. Why's your dad care?"

"I _know_ you've met him," she said. "Figure it out."

"So…I hear you're tutoring, or something? Teaching her? What do you want me to do?"

"Just entertain her. Who cares? I need to go blow off steam and have some fun."

Between _have some fun_ and _run off with Calla_, I had a feeling Creon's and Taurus's daughters were closer than I'd expected. Maybe even closer than that, given by the subtle smile creeping across Bera's lips.

"Yeah, um…cool," I stammered. "Sure."

"If you want money, I'll throw some your way. No big deal."

"I don't need money. Or…I mean…"

"Don't worry 'bout it."

She was off before I could answer. Bera wasn't what I had expected from a child of Taurus Sharpe: I'd figured she'd be cold, serious, ambitious, maybe even power-hungry…but _normal_? Bera didn't look more than a few years older than me, and she could've stood in for Phoebe without missing a beat. _Girl stuff. Headaches_. _Blowing off steam_. It was a bit average for the daughter of one of the most intimidating men I'd ever seen, but maybe that was the only way to deal with having someone like that for a father.

"So are we gonna whack people?" Cassandra interrupted my thoughts.

"Hm?"

She hit a branch with her stick for effect. "Like when you whacked the one guy. Whack! And there was the snake, and his head went all gross. Like, bloosh! Then all the blood and other stuff was everywhere. It was gross but it was cool."

I bit my lip. "You watched all that?"

"Yeah. My mom doesn't care. My grandpa wouldn't let me watch until last year, though. He was all mad when I wanted to the year before. You know? It's so dumb."

_Yeah, I can believe that._ In fact, I was surprised Creon even let Cassandra watch the Games _now_. "Whacking" the boy from District 7 hadn't been exactly kid-friendly.

The strangeness of having a light conversation about blood sport with the nine year-old future president of Panem hadn't quite sunken in.

I spied a stick nearby like the one Cassandra whipped around and put together a plan. She sure liked talking – what kid her age didn't? – and I figured it wouldn't take much to steer the conversation to the places I needed to look into. I just needed to grease the wheels first.

"Tell you what," I said, grabbing the stick and sizing Cassandra up. "Bet whatever Bera's teaching you gets boring, huh?"

"Yeah! She keeps going on about spelling and stuff, but it's dumb, and I don't wanna –"

I pointed my stick at her. "We don't have time for boring lessons. We're the last two in the Hunger Games. You have to beat me to win."

Cassandra's smile disturbed me. It wasn't so much the girl that unnerved me, but how easily _I_ had put the Hunger Games in the context of an actual game. Here in the deepest bowels of the Capitol, it was easy even for me to forget what was going on hundreds, thousands of miles from here to Fenton and the others in the arena. It all seemed so distant through the television screens that were so easy to step away from.

But dammit, if I had to play fake Hunger Games to earn Cassandra's trust, so be it. Telling her about the reality of watching Glenn ask to die wouldn't go over so well, if she could even understand what that kind of a thing even meant at her age. For this afternoon, the fantasy could remain just that.

For all her enthusiasm, Cassandra was unsure of what to do with her stick when she wasn't hitting trees. I tapped her on the hip before she even reacted to my swing. "Don't let me push you into the pond!" I laughed. "Hold your stick up. You have to block."

"It's not a stick, it's a _sword_."

"It's not doing sword things hanging by your side."

Play-fighting against a child made me look a lot better of a fighter than I actually was. In five minutes, Cassandra only hit me twice, triumphantly declaring victory on the second strike after I nearly toppled backwards into the pond when I slipped on a rock. It was enough to get her to sit down for a spell.

"Bera never lets me do stuff like that," she exhaled, swishing her stick around in the water as I took a seat on the stone bench next to her. "Neither does my mom."

"What's your mom do with you?" I asked, sensing an opening.

Cassandra shrugged. "She keeps meeting with people."

"Yeah? I met her once. Few days ago. She seemed really busy."

"Mm-hmm. With Bera's dad and that blue woman and that Gar guy. She keeps talking with them."

I could figure out the first two, Taurus and Lucrezia. It didn't surprise me one bit that they had a tight grip on the future president. But Gar? I hadn't a clue who that was. I had to keep working Cassandra for information.

"Bera's dad has always been a meanie to me," I told her, scrunching up my face. "He's boring, too."

"Yeah. I don't get what they talk about."

"What kinda things?"

"Not fun things. Just things I don't remember that sounded boring. The blue woman and Gar were more fun."

_Getting somewhere_. "Fun things like you do with friends, or…"

She scowled and kicked her feet at the dirt. "Mom doesn't let a lot of other girls around. Friends and stuff."

"That's okay," I said, quick to cover up my misstep. I didn't want to dive into sensitive subjects with the girl in our first meeting. The last thing I wanted to do was upset her. "When I was younger I didn't have a lot of friends, either. But hey, I'm here."

"You're not even that old!"

"Yeah, but…like, if I had a little sister, she'd be your age or so. So if you start swinging a sword now, you can fight off nasty things when you're fifteen, too. Probably better than me, actually. All I did was fix power plants before last year. Boring, huh?"

Her eyes widened. "I read that's really exciting! Like there's fire and lightning and things happening. Is that what you do?"

"Uh, usually I just hit things with a wrench. Where'd you read that?"

"On my mom's computer. She wasn't looking when I got on it one day."

She was an interesting girl, I thought, watching her pitch pebbles at fish in the reflecting pool. I supposed most nine year-olds yearned for adventure, but in this city I couldn't be so sure that the allure of fancy clothes and gaudy parties wouldn't take hold – especially with someone like Calla for a mother. Not for Cassandra: If anything, she seemed bored by all this luxury and comfort. Maybe her ideas of life outside of the Capitol didn't exactly mesh with reality, but I could get along with them. At least she wasn't threatening me or kissing me.

_And there's something to be said for having an in with the future president_. Taurus and Lucrezia had the right idea. I was just thinking one generation ahead of them.

"I met the blue woman," I said, staring off into the water. "What's this Gar guy talk about with your mom?"

She shrugged. "He came to our house two years ago I think. I don't really remember. Last time was a couple weeks ago, though, and Mom was like, 'Someone's going to hear about you!' and he got all angry, and they talked about my grandpa and his dad."

"Did you know your great-grandpa? I never met him, but your grandfather talks about him a lot to me."

Cassandra nodded, her eyes downcast. "Yeah. He was always busy though. My mom doesn't let me see my grandpa much either."

"He's busy too," I said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I see him a lot. Want me to tell him you want to come by?"

She nodded and smiled, and I scrounged up an excuse to leave her in the garden. Whatever Rensler had wanted me to find out from Cassandra, I figured I'd learn more from whoever this "Gar" character was – and I didn't think there was much more I could learn here. I've have to find someone better connected in the city to pursue my next lead, and not someone who'd blab to the first face they saw. Whatever I was digging into, I wanted to keep it a secret until I had something solid to tell Creon.

I was so caught up in my thoughts I didn't notice someone watching me from between the trees.

"What are you doing?"

I spun to find a boy resting against a thick tree trunk, watching me with narrow black eyes. His black hair and gaunt face made him look even more suspicious of me. His attire was quintessential Capitol, from the long golden tunic he wore that ran down to mid-thigh to his black trousers, lined with silver and sparkling purple stones down the sides. He could stand to eat more, but given the Capitol's obsession with staying thin, I imagined he was following the norm.

"Excuse me?" I said, stepping back.

"Victors shouldn't be here," said the boy, stepping out from the brush. He didn't look much older than me, if at all. "Why're you talking with Cassie, Terra?"

"Do I know you?"

"Doubt it."

"Are you spying on me?"

"You're not very subtle talking in the open, especially when you were talking to my sister."

"Your sister?" I said, my head whirring. "Bera?"

"Yeah."

"You're Taurus's son?"

He shrugged. "Marcus Sharpe. Please don't talk about him in the open like this."

"What –"

"Terra, I heard what you were saying to Cassie, getting her to talk about people coming to her house and all. I don't know what you're up to, but that's not very smart."

"First off, I don't even _know_ you," I said, narrowing my eyes. "And I don't care who you are, either. Secondly, that's a private conversation. Private."

He slumped his shoulders and frowned. "Look. I've seen you around here before, everyone with eyes has. Clearly you're not just a normal old victor, but if you're going to go prodding people like Cassie in the open when everyone can hear…I mean, if I can hear it, are you thinking about who else can?"

"The hells do you care? Whoever you are spying on me?"

"Well, more than me are probably listening on this very conversation we're having right now," he said. "I…I mean, I watched you in last year's Hunger Games, and I know you're coming around here and talking the president and everything. I don't know how things work in District 5, or how you even waltzed in here, but…I mean, if I can figure out you're up to something by overhearing you for two minutes, so can the rest of the world."

I scowled. "Not sure what your problem is with me getting to know people."

"I'm trying to give you advice. You're not from here, I just…"

"Well, thanks. Now go listen in on someone else's private conversation."

I shoved past him and hurried out of the garden. I had things to find out about this Gar character – and wanted to put as much distance between myself and Taurus Sharpe's son as possible. Creep.


	50. The Gray Self

Cicero and Caesar were yapping again. This mutt and that trap in the forest – it all blended into the background for me. As far as the 97th Hunger Games were concerned, I didn't care about the little details, like the hidden pit of spikes that awaited the two from District 4 if they chose to traverse the ravine. I didn't care that the huge flying mutt was based off of some mythical creature. I only care that Fenton was still alive, even as he nursed a shoulder gash he'd sustained tumbling down a small gorge the day before.

He was alive, and I still had a reason to care.

In truth, I felt guilty as I watched the two talking heads. I hadn't spent nearly as much time courting sponsors as I should have, even if it might not have tipped the odds _that_ drastically in Fenton's favor. He was still alone in the cloud forest, the mist choking him off from others and cutting his visibility down to a few meters at best. Every tree loomed out of the fog like a black specter, hardened and ready to smack him down the moment he turned his back. I wasn't sure all the money in the world I could gather would change things right now, even if it might change his supply situation. Fenton had a small knife he'd recovered from a supply cache hidden beneath a forlorn log, and he was doing well on dry clothes and food given our sponsor drops. We sure couldn't guarantee him anything like a sword, however.

For now, it was a waiting game – waiting to see what the other seven tributes remaining would do first.

"Always the tedious part," said Elan, watching as the two from District 4 probed the misty ravine ahead of them on our office television screens. "Once there's only eight left, the producers tend to get caught up in interviewing people back home. This is the point they grow interested in their characters as more than meat. A little late to flesh out their stories, I think."

He and I were alone in the office. Daud had retreated to some hovel in the Capitol to drink with Johanna and Haymitch, while Finch had left for sponsorship duty once again. She seemed more and more restless by the day, with every hour Fenton lived on adding to her stress. I felt it, too, but I didn't know if selling my time was the cure.

"How many of these have you watched?" I asked. I leaned back in my chair and watched, less interested in Cicero and Caesar and more interested in Elan's answer. He was always well-informed.

"Fifteen years as of next as an escort," he said. "I began with District 11…but that's a long story. Another time, maybe."

"You promised me that you'd share it. You're not like…like a lot of escorts. Not so fussy."

He smirked. "We all have our tastes. The other escorts, me, everyone."

"Fine. Different question, since you seem to know everything. Do you know someone named Gar?"

My escort paused and raised an eyebrow. "You end up in some strange conversations."

"I overheard the name."

"Of course. The things we innocently overhear. It's so easy in this city," he said. Elan turned away from the screen and folded his hands. "From what I overhear, you wouldn't want to meet the man."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know any Gar personally. I've never met any man with that name face-to-face. But I've heard the name in passing, and I know someone in a dark corner of the Capitol who could tell you more."

I opened my arms. "So…arrange me a meeting?"

"Not an easy proposition. You see, the someone in question…she doesn't live in a part of the Capitol like this. This city's a lot larger than its villa district and the metro center, and there are parts where the buildings never shined. It's hushed up by those in the know here. Even the most well-polished toilets have a stink, after all. In these parts where the excrement flows freer than money, simply setting up a meeting with a crime boss takes a little more than a polite request."

"A _what_?"

"I'm a little shocked you're so surprised such elements call this city home. After all the people you've been consorting with over the past few weeks…"

"No, it's just…"

I bit my tongue. I was doing a lot for Creon's vague request to unearth clues about his father's death, especially when I had only scraps and guesses to work with. Still, I'd gotten this far down the tunnel. I'd gone too far to let myself walk away without some sort of payoff at the end of the road, even if my own curiosity was my biggest driver.

"How do you know this person?" I said at last.

Elan shrugged. "I grew up with her, several dozen children and I who ran around the streets in Auburn's Belly. She lived two blocks away from me when I was six. If you could call them blocks."

My eyes bulged. "What?'

"Like I said, that's for another time. Save your shock until then. I have to procure something to earn that conversation in the meantime, something that will take a day to arrive, knowing where it's coming from. Don't spend too much time in here. It's a bit too sterile for my tastes."

Elan strolled out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the television. I wasn't wrong in thinking he knew everything. Every time I talked with Elan gave me something new to think about, but more than anything, I wracked my brain over _why_ he was an escort if he was telling the truth about his background. If he'd come up from somewhere horrible to this, why keep prancing around on the Hunger Games stage year after year? I had no doubt he had enough money to do whatever he wanted. Why keep leading doomed children to the arena?

The television didn't give me much time to dwell. I had to worry about another potentially doomed child: Brocade and Achilles wandered through the misty forest not twenty meters from where Fenton cowered in the underbrush, his breath heavy. He'd heard them, clutching to his obsidian chunk for protection, his back pressed against a thick tree trunk. I reached for someone to hold onto and found myself alone. Digging my fingers into a cushion provided my only relief. _Dammit, we should've given him an actual weapon._

On the screen, Brocade grunted. "We're not finding shit out here. It's just wet and everything."

"I've been pretty dry. Apart from the fog that never lifts and the constant rain and the fact that my shoes are lakes," said Achilles.

He received a grunt in return as Brocade steered them towards Fenton. _Go the other way. Hear something._ My thoughts were in vain.

Fenton had trouble keeping his breathing quiet as panic crept over his face. Brocade didn't hear it as he passed by the tree, but Achilles stopped short nearby. He bent down and picked up a fist-sized rock from the ground, turning it over in his hands.

"The hell are you doing?" Brocade berated him.

Achilles shrugged, and in one fast motion, hurled the rock at the base of Fenton's tree. Fenton yelped as it struck him in the gut, and it wasn't a moment before Achilles brushed aside the leaves that camouflaged him.

Brocade grinned. "Huh. Hiding. We did find something. Who the hell're you again?"

Fenton was in no mood for chit-chat. He didn't look eighteen any more: Fear flashed in his eyes as he pressed himself against the tree, swallowing hard and gripping his rock. Achilles looked back and forth between my tribute and his ally, his eyes narrowing. "Go on and get it over with, Brocade. I'll let you have the honors. This is boring me already."

"Pansy," said Brocade, smirking. He hefted his axe, smiling at Fenton as he said, "Any famous last words, or things? At least give 'em your name."

"Please," Fenton begged at last, dropping his rock and holding up his hands. "There's only a handful of us left. I'll do anything. Please. Just don't."

I dug my nails into my palms. I knew what happened next, and I was powerless to intervene.

"Can't do that," Brocade said with a shrug. "Sorry, man."

He lifted his axe over his head. Fenton held up his hands – and a blade plunged out of the front of Brocade's stomach.

The boy from District 1 gasped. He still clutched his axe as he pressed one hand to the wound. Blood spilled out, a river of crimson gurgling up like a hot spring from beneath his shirt. Brocade stumbled back as Achilles yanked the blade out.

"W-w-what?" Brocade stammered, his voice weak and timid. Achilles's face was stone, not a single emotion playing out over it. "Why d-didn't –"

Achilles didn't let him have his famous last words. He batted aside Brocade's axe and swung his sword. The blade connected against the base of his ally's neck, cleaving like a guillotine through muscle and spine. Brocade's head landed in the wet earth with a soft _piff_ as his body stumbled, contorting, contracting, hands shaking, before slumping down in a pool of blood and collapsing in the dirt.

Fenton gasped. His lip quivered as he stared at Brocade's head, its eyes still wide with shock. As Achilles wiped gristle off of his blade, Fenton managed to stammer, "Th-thank –"

He didn't finish. Achilles ran his sword straight into Fenton's heart, not a flicker of emotion on his face. It was mechanical, surgical, execution at its most logical and routine.

I screamed, turned, and buried my face in the cushions.

**/ / / / /**

Drink number three tasted just like numbers one and two: Full of bitterness.

An invisible hand squeezed my heart as I threw back another swig of the foul-tasting clear liquid. _Thump. Thump. _Each heartbeat strained and pressed against the grip. Tumbling between confusion and drunkenness, my mind searched for reason. _Why?_ _Why_, the question of why the Hunger Games had called Fenton and Mari's name in the first place. _Why_, came the question with no answers on why I'd spent so much time dabbling in Creon Snow's game rather than attending to my tributes, the ones with lives on the line. _Why, _wondered the wisps of hate that snarled at Achilles for his cold-blooded murders, at Brocade for his arrogance before a helpless opponent. _Why_, asked the voice in my hand that vacillated between self-condemnation and bewilderment.

Gray. Everything looked gray. Gray walls lined the Training Center's communal floor. Gray room, empty except for me and my drinks. Gray floor under humming gray lights. Gray couch. Gray television screens I'd turned off as soon as I walked in. Outside, gray towers and gray streets under a wet blanket of gray clouds.

I kicked the leg of a chair. Good. I felt something – pain, but something. That was good. At least I felt.

The glass looked tempting in my hand as I emptied its contents on the floor. I didn't want to feel this vacant throbbing in my chest, and the pain in my foot at least felt better than that. It was present, hot, colorful, better than the squeezing that laughed at my pathetic attempts to leave me in drunken peace. With a _crash_, I smashed the glass against a tabletop, breaking away two-thirds of the glass and leaving but a jagged, sharp shard in my hand.

It bit my finger when I pricked its edge. I ran the glass along my palm, wondering what color the blood would be if I pressed it into the skin.

I hadn't expected company, but that's what I got when the elevator doors whirred open. The last person I wanted to see walked out, frowning and squinting as he did.

"Why the hell is every light in here on?" Drake asked. "It's like a freaking – why is the floor all wet?"

I scowled at him and raised my glass, remembering I'd broken it only when I jabbed my lip with the edge. I swore and pressed my hand my mouth as Drake laughed.

"This is a real happy occasion," he said as I turned away. "You're sitting here, drinking alone – or not really drinking, considering you broke your glass. What are you doing?"

"Piss off," I spat.

He sighed. "Is this really how you're gonna cope? Terra, this is pathetic."

"Oh, real empathetic. Thank the gods you're here. I wouldn't have managed without."

"'Gods.' Crazy religions in your outlying districts."

"Do you want something? Are you just here to mock me? Go ahead. Mock away. Bastard."

"Terra, I'm not –"

"You know, Finch told me about your mother. Annie. Did she like, pass on crazy to you? Is that why you think this is all funny?"

He frowned and narrowed his eyes. "First off, you're the one who's been a first-class jerk to me the whole time. Secondly, that's really low and uncalled for. Even if you're just trying to hurt stuff, since that's apparently the only way you get things out."

I couldn't help it. I pitched the fragment of my glass at him, missing by a mile and hitting the wall, but it was the thought that counted. Growling, I turned away and shoved my face into a pillow. Tears broke free from the dams I'd struggled to keep up, right at the very moment when I'd hoped to keep them back. _Wonderful. Give Drake something else to laugh at you about._

To my surprise, he didn't say something demeaning. He didn't say anything. Drake slumped down in the seat next to me and put a hand on my shoulder. I brushed it away, angry, torn, hoping to drive him off. It didn't work.

"Don't touch me," I moaned.

"Fine. Won't."

"Leave me alone."

"No."

I don't know why I did what I did next. I turned away from my cushion, tears streaming down my cheeks, and planted my face into his chest. Nobody else was around to cry into, and his torso made a good pillow. He paused, unsure of what to make of me before reaching around and holding my back.

"Just get it out," he said.

I pawed at his shoulder, clutching whatever I could get my fumbling hands on. "I'm sorry," I blubbered.

"Don't worry 'bout it."

"I don't have anyone else."

"Terra, just shut up."

Fine. If I had to use him as a tissue, so be it. I didn't care.


	51. Auburn's Belly

_**+ And here we get into some of my more creative liberalizing of the Capitol…and if you thought we were done with people around Terra dying now that District 5's out of the 97**__**th**__** Hunger Games, think again!**_

**/ / / / /**

"First you convince me to take you to the villa district. Now we're in the poorest slum in the Capitol. Quite a step down. Should I be afraid of where you ask to go next?"

"You offered to take me to the villas."

"District 13, perhaps? District 14?"

"Yeah. Both. One place that never existed, and one that no longer does. I can't see how to lower my standards anymore."

I pulled the lip of my hood lower over my eyes. Out of anywhere in the Capitol, I couldn't be seen here. Auburn's Belly, as Elan called this place, made Redhammer look like an oasis, and it was plain as day to see why the Capitol hushed it up. The slushy streets checkerboarded with cracked asphalt and runny mud, the gray stucco buildings tattooed with anatomically correct graffiti, the open-air, aluminum siding stands lined with steaming roasted animals and cheap-looking tech goods – the whole scene belonged in the industrial slums I'd seen in Districts 3 and 8, not the Capitol, not the center of civilization as I knew it.

The people, too, were a race out of place. No gaudy tattoos and surgical procedures marked the faces of these men and women, no fancy clothes of linen and lace, no unnatural colors swept from a sunset into silk. Brown ruled Auburn's Belly. Brown streets, brown faces, brown clothes, even the brown haze that hung about here in this valley below the great white-capped mountains of the Capitol. It even _smelled_ brown.

Elan had been careful to camouflage me before we left. Dark, dirty streaks lined my cheeks and below my eyes, and my hair hung about my shoulders, curling about from under my hood in lazy, loose circles.

"I just don't get how any of this exists," I mumbled as we passed by a man slumped against a building, a needle in his hand. His eyes were open, but I doubted he saw much of anything. "Here, at least."

My escort chuckled. "There are twelve districts, Terra. Twelve. Each has a specialty. Do you think that's enough to keep a city this size and a population this hungry sated?"

"Yeah. I mean, there's avoxes, too."

"Slave labor is hardly a solution for the niceties this city takers for granted. The people of Auburn's Belly and the other neighborhoods like this handle what jobs can't be sourced out to the districts or handled by avoxes and are beneath the inner city dwellers. Try as you may, Terra, but you'll never learn every nook and cranny of the Capitol if you only spend a month or less out of every year here. Its population alone is larger than six of the districts combined."

I kicked a broken brick out of the way as we walked down a busy avenue, a pair of scruffy dogs weaving in and out of the crowd. The sight baffled me: Not the dogs, not with the Capitolians I'd seen cradling pink-dyed dogs the size of jackrabbits like babies, but the brick. The street cleaners, whoever they were, cleaned every inch of the roads and alleys of the shining downtown. Here, I half-thought people would walk right over a dead body.

_That's something people back home would probably do._

"Are you going to tell me who we're meeting before we arrive?" I said. "Unless we're going to take all day to arrive, since we're walking."

"Cars aren't so ubiquitous here, and don't even mention a hovercraft," scoffed Elan. "As for who I'm taking you to, her name is Derva Trevelyan. She runs a small-time criminal racket here in Auburn's Belly, mostly engaging in smuggling in goods from Districts 1 and 3. Once married, no longer, although I have no idea what happened to her once-husband."

"How do they smuggle things from District 3?"

"They don't go all the way to the northwest, for sure. The people who supervise avoxes in the transportation tunnels below the Capitol largely come from here. A simple bribe and some altered paperwork covers everything."

"Not very original. What were you getting for this meeting?"

Elan pulled a fist-sized sack off his belt. Something that sounded like glass clanked inside. "Not anything looked upon highly where we're coming from," he said. "Here, just a token of good will. Derva and I have long gotten along, but we haven't seen each other in more than half a decade. Times change."

Something illegal, then. Oh well.

The place wasn't some gaudy villa or ornate headquarters like I'd been used to in the Capitol. Instead, it was a small concrete hovel, sandwiched between two two-story buildings and caught in the perpetual shade of both. Only a single guard – if he could be called that – stood outside, hands in his pockets, eyes half-closed. I figured a criminal would have better security against enemies, but this _was_ my first foray into this kind thing.

"You want somethin'?" grunted the guard, wiping the sweat off of his forehead.

Elan pulled a vial out of his sack. Inside, an amber liquid with flecks of silver and black sloshed about. "Coming to share gifts," Elan said, shrugging. "I like to share gifts with old friends, but my only one tells you what to do."

The guard folded his arms and sized him up for a moment before snatching the vial. "She stays outside."

"Afraid that doesn't work. Business partnership."

The man pulled the sack away from Elan, reached inside, and helped himself to another vial. "Payment doubles, then. Weapons?"

"None, I'm afraid."

"Damn stupid."

"Prefer it that way. What is it about being dumb and happy?"

The guard didn't leave it to Elan's word. He patted down the both of us, reaching a little too far between my thighs for my comfort, but I didn't squeak. Not here.

"Fine," he said, nodding to the door.

The cool, bland entrance way led down to a circular staircase. Into the depths Elan and I descended, down what felt like at least two stories' worth of stairs before the walls opened up to a bright chamber. However small the building looked on the outside, the basement was massive. One large room dominated the whole, capable of fitting at least a hundred people if I guessed right. Tables and chairs scattered about this way and that, not the shiny metal and ceramic things I was used to, but worn furniture, hewn from splintered wood and rusting iron, cheap and disposable. Three men sat about one of the tables, tossing red and blue cards that I recognized from the game Quintus had taught me. Elsewhere, a circle of men and women stood about a broadcast of the Hunger Games, their backs to the television, caught up in conversation.

It was the head of the room that caught my attention. A tall, broad-shoulder woman sat in a towering chair, waving away a blustering man. She looked bored, her dark eyes sagging. Everything about her contrasted with the bright white lights of the ceiling – her ebony skin, her long, straight black hair that fell in waves past her elbows, her irritated, almost violent expression. She had a powerful build, the kind that could command attention in a place where strength superseded all.

She looked up, and her eyes stared past me at me escort. The woman stood up, frowning, her eyes narrowing as she bellowed, "Everybody get out. Go get your kicks somewhere else."

Elan didn't budge, even as I started to move. He understood what everyone else in the room seemed to get: The woman wanted to talk to the new arrivals alone.

It didn't take more than two minutes for the room to empty as people filed out of doors I'd barely seen coming in, shrinking away into other rooms of this colossal basement. The woman strode forward, her walk powerful and authoritative. She held her head high and pursed her lips as she approached us, brushing right past me and standing up to Elan.

"You little dick," she growled.

She shoved him, and for a moment I felt a wave of panic strike me. Before I could think otherwise, she wrapped a hand around his shoulder, smiled from ear to ear, and laughed, "You too busy to see me for five years? Six years? Whatever it's been?"

Elan smiled, too. For once he lost his uptight and serious demeanor: "You made the better career choice. More free time."

"You stupid liar. You get to prance about in your pretty clothes on national TV while I deal with these stupid schmucks," she said. "You bring me a present? What's this, an engagement ring? A little large. You want to stay forever now?"

"Something for the stupid schmucks," said my escort. "I'd heard shipping from District 2 was getting harder. Tough to get the right rocks in this city, if you get me."

"The shit you say. You did get all kinds of pretty in your job," the woman said. Finally, she looked my way. "I guess my gate guard was too asleep to see who you'd brought. Does she want a job, or something?"

"Too caught up in her Hunger Games for that, I think. Terra, this is Derva Trevelyan. Who we're here to meet, as I said."

"'Here to meet,'" the woman, Derva, snorted before I had a chance to recover. "I'm not a caterer, Elan. Poor girl's probably soiled herself with all this commotion. Did you even tell her you were stepping away from the ivory towers for a bit?"

"Oh, I think she's figured out a bit about my past by this point. She's not nude shots and snakes as the advertisers make her out to be."

"That so?" Derva barked. She smirked and asked me, "I could tell you didn't want any part of that funhouse the moment you paused before mercy-killing your district partner. So spit it out. What d'you want, girl? Why'd you make Elan finally come back here?"

I looked to my escort for a hint, but he only nodded towards his old friend. Swallowing hard, I said, "I want to ask about someone. Privately."

"This isn't private enough?"

Elan interjected, "The last time I played a hand of cards against anyone other than a gullible victor was at least three years ago. I think I'll help myself to a hand against your people. Don't yell too loudly at Terra. She gets that enough from her mentors."

My escort slipped through a side door without a sound, navigating the room as if he'd been here many times. In hindsight, he probably had.

Derva watched him go with a chuckle. She was even more imposing in person, the most intimidating woman I'd ever seen, far more than any of the victors or tributes. "Man's probably shooting up on ryle," she snorted. "Doubt it's acceptable among your kind of company."

I paused, found my voice, and said, "Shooting what?"

"Ryle. A drug," said Derva, slumping down into a chair with a thud. "Elan introduced me to it when we were littler than you. Give it to my people now. Pff. Whatever the vids say about you, you're a lot more unblemished than they portray you."

She reached for a bottle of something clear, pouring a glass, starting on a second, and stopping: "Guess you wouldn't want any of that, either."

I stuck out my jaw. "Pour me."

"Ha!" Derva filled the glass to the brim and slid it my way. "At least you're not afraid of drink."

I felt nervous sitting in front of her, this woman who looked as if she could fight Daud to a draw. Yet an excited bubble deep in my gut urged me forward, pressing for answers to questions that popped up in my head. Watching Fenton and Mari in the Hunger Games, I'd been helpless. Powerless to intervene, a believer watching as her church burned down. Here I had agency, if nothing else. I wasn't responsible for anyone but me.

Derva coughed into her drink and said, "Doubt you're here to ogle and drink. So fine. Why're you here?"

"Elan said you know about a guy named Gar," I said.

"And what would you want with someone with such a boring name?"

"Ogling and drinking?" I said, taking a sip from the glass. The liquor was strong and hot, but the bite felt good.

"You're not as good at keeping secrets as you think," Derva said. "I know you've been walking in and out of the Presidential Mansion. Anyone with eyes knows. Bet you're here for them. But only for someone in particular, considering that Peacekeepers have been sniffing around for Gar the last week. So I'm guessing you either overheard the name, or someone who wouldn't resort to sending in the boys in white sent you. The president?"

"He didn't send me," I said. That much was true.

"Something I would've expected of him. Paranoid shit. All those advisors and he shuts himself in, so everyone hears," said Derva. "So you're playing detective, then. I don't know if I like that, but Elan must like you enough to come back to this place he hated so much, so that's a point for you in my book. What's Gar done to bring you here?"

"Peacekeepers are looking for him?"

"Whoa now. Slow down. I may know that, I may be guessing. What do you want with him?"

I slumped my shoulders. Evasiveness wouldn't work forever. "I heard he was doing things for the president's daughter."

"You heard that?"

"From someone close to Calla."

Derva narrowed her eyes and grinned. "Huh. I don't like that succubus much myself, though not like she'd ever sully herself here. So you heard things. What do you want to do about these things?"

"I want to talk to him."

"You're talking to me and making me think you're in way over your head."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Famous last words."

"Elan said you could help me find him. Can you or is he lying?"

She laughed. "You're a relentless little harpy. Fine. Gar hasn't done much for me lately, anyway. Word I get is that he's helping bigwigs. You want to find him? He squats in an abandoned warehouse a dozen or two blocks from here. Hates permanent addresses. But Elan's an idiot if he's agreeing to go see him with you."

"Why?"

"Dammit, told you. He's a wanted man. Why, I dunno."

"It doesn't matter," I said, taking a leap of faith. "I'll see him alone. Elan doesn't have to worry."

Derva paused. "You're an idiot. Elan's wrong. You haven't understood his past as much as he thinks. This is the kind of place where pretty girls like you end up in ditches, maybe alive, maybe not. But not my problem if you have a suicide wish. That's how they mark it if a victor dies in some strange way, you know? Suicide. That's what they mark. Hides any drama. Learned that from some sloshed Gamesmaker one day when I ventured into the inner city a few years ago."

"Can you show me where he lives, or not?"

"I bet he'll give you a real warm welcome, especially when he finds out who you are. Playing detective is a real bad idea for someone in your position," she sighed. "Fine. One condition: If you don't end up as some high-as-a-hovercraft man's plaything for the evening after this, I'm going to call in a favor sometime. Maybe next year, maybe a decade down the line. But I don't forget faces or conversations. Ask Elan about that. You want something from me, I'll want something from you."

I gritted my teeth. I was doing a lot to satisfy my curiosity and answer Creon's questions, but so be it. I couldn't abandon a trail like this.

"Fine."

**/ / / / /**

Another girl had died in the Hunger Games by the time the next evening had rolled around, but I didn't care about that spectacle any longer. Fenton and Mari were dead. Drake's kids were still alive – and likely the favorites, considering that Achilles was their last real competition – but I had my own mission to complete, one _I _had decided upon, not one that had been thrust upon me.

Twilight cloaked Auburn's Belly in violet melancholy. The streets were a shade darker, the stands, abandoned by vendors retreating into their hovels for the night, were forlorn and vacant. Passersby still went this way and that on the street, but I felt more visible out here at this hour. More noticeable, as if someone would run up, rip off my hood, tie my hair back, rub off the dirty makeup, and stick a label reading "Terra Pike" in capital letters on my chest.

I hurried.

The warehouse stood right where Derva said it did. It was a lonely old building, all aluminum siding and old age, a tired thing standing on a creaky foundation likely full of mice and worms. A lone door beckoned me to knock, but when I tried the handle, it opened. No one had even bothered to lock it.

I inhaled immediately. It was dark inside, far too dark for my liking. I hated this, the black, the shadow. My head swam with the thought of rats rustling in the darkness, swarming and scurrying out as soon as I took a step inside. I regretted not bringing someone else. Couldn't I have persuaded Phoebe to come along or something?

Crouching, I took a step inside. The floor creaked. It smelled of musk and history in here, and a taint of something sour. I couldn't place the scent, but it was familiar. Fortunately, despite my lack of foresight, I _had_ brought a flashlight. I fumbled about my belt before I found it, clutching it for dear life and clicking it on.

_Relief!_ The narrow band of light didn't crowd out the darkness entirely, but it was enough to give me something to lean on as the shadows crept in from all sides. Anxiety welled up in me as I waved the light around.

"Gar?" I called out. No one answered.

Stupid. What had I expected? A lone girl, stepping into an old, seemingly abandoned warehouse at this hour. I hadn't even asked Derva to set up a meeting or anything. For all I knew, I was breaking and entering. Stupid, stupid. Did I really think he would just magically show up for me?

I considered crouching in a corner with my flashlight and waiting things out – the darkness a horrifying prospect – just as I noticed a glowing light far away in the warehouse. I sucked in my breath and took a step forward. "Gar?" I called again, getting nothing in response. _Why hadn't I asked Daud for a weapon? If anyone could have gotten me that…_

The closer I stepped to the light, the more the darkness closed in. My heart thumped, so loud I thought it would alert whoever was there. When I finally reached it, however, I found no one – only a computer, its display opened to the Capitol intranet, on a page linked to District 1.

_Travel arrangements for Capitolians on the go!_ read a bright advertisement on the intranet page. _Looking for a cheap getaway? Relax on the southwest coast beneath the white towers of District 1! Picture yourself on the beach, nothing but bliss at mind…_

I looked around before focusing on the screen. Whoever had been using this computer wanted to get away – to leave the Capitol. But why?

That smell again. I held a hand over my nose, hoping to block out whatever it was while I searched the computer. I didn't have a lot of experience with these things, but I'd gotten enough from Finch to know my way around the intranet. It was handy for connecting to sponsors, and in this case, it was handy to see the last places this user had been. Travel destinations, mostly. District 3. District 4. _Travel advisory for District 4 – unstable weather patterns._ What?

_Clack!_

I wheeled about, my breath freezing. Something made a noise.

My flashlight didn't find anyone, but it did find something else. Crimson stained a nearby support pole that stretched up to the warehouse's ceiling. When I drew closer, I recognized it . More on the ground – there and there. Splotches only, but someone had been hurt here. They were dry, but they didn't look that old.

Glancing around the darkness, I clutched my flashlight for dear life and followed the blood trail. There – something different on a wooden crate. Not blood, but splinters, an impact pit. Someone had smashed something heavy into the crate's side, something blunt. A weapon? A club, maybe, or the butt of a gun? Even a brick? Whatever it was, it had made a sizable dent. People had fought here, clearly, and someone had lost.

Considering the smell, I feared what I'd see next.

It wasn't a minute before I found it. I shined my light on the hand first. It was white, pale, a dead limb. As I shined my flashlight higher, I saw the results of Derva's warning. A thin man lay on the ground, his eyes glazed over, his chest still, his legs contorted. A pair of small holes bored into the right side of his chest – bullets. Semi-dried blood stained the ground and his shirt around the wounds. Either this was Gar, or an assassin he'd killed, and whoever it was, I doubted they'd died quickly. Probably punctured the lung with the shots.

_Creak!_

I switched off my flashlight a moment before someone opened the door. I knew it wasn't just me imaging things this time, and I bunkered down against a crate as a pair of lights shined into the warehouse. The darkness was overpowering. It reached in from all sides now that I no longer had light of my own, leering at me, taunting me, laughing from its dark corners. _Afraid of me, Terra?_ It chuckled. _No time for re-dos_.

I clamped a hand over my mouth. My heart raced.

"Smells like piss in here," someone behind the new lights said. "This where we find 'im?"

"Quiet!" Someone else barked. "Keep your sights up. Finger on the trigger. Dunno what's in here."

"We searched the last two…"

"Quiet!"

A spear of light cut overhead. I squirmed against my crate, desperate, hoping whoever it was wouldn't come this way. _There's no one here alive. Except me, but you're not here for me. Go away_.

I was wrong. Someone coughed, and not one of the two I'd heard.

"Can I help you two?"

The lights snapped away from me. "Who're you?"

"A visitor. I was checking up on someone."

Hold on. Goosebumps ran up my arms. Something about that new voice sounded familiar.

"Identify yourself!" barked one of the entrants.

"Gentlemen, please, there's no need for this."

"That's an order!"

"You wouldn't believe my name if I told you. Either of you…study your history? Capitol history, earlier?"

The voices paused. Feeling brave, I clutched my flashlight like it was a gun and looked up. I didn't believe what I saw: Whoever controlled the two sources of light, they shined them right on perhaps the last person I ever expected to see again: The Capitol artist who had escorted me to Calla Snow's party before the Hunger Games had kicked off, Rex Rousseau. He looked no different than that day, dressed in an elegant suit and clean-shaven as if this place didn't bother him a bit.

_What?_

"The hell are you?" one of the two newcomers barked. "Hands! Where I can see 'em!"

"I told you…"

"He's got something on his belt, sir!"

I swallowed hard. I had a feeling the two newcomers weren't random arrivals, but Peacekeepers. Derva hadn't lied to me about who was after Gar.

"What's that?" the other Peacekeeper snarled. "Hands where I can see 'em!"

"Sure you want to see what I carry?" said Rex. _Was this the same Rex? The schmucky artist?_

"I told you to identify yourself! Don't think we won't shoot!"

Rex laughed. "You know what they think of Peacekeepers in the districts? Boogeymen. The bad guys coming to kill them and abduct their children in the night. You're perfect stereotypes, the two of you. Bandit A and Bandit B. Now me, I'm a storyteller. I'm carrying a very old story, and it's…it's not the kind for your sort of clichés."

"Hands! Last warning!"

"This city's full of clichés, and I'm so sick of them."

"He's reaching –"

"Fire!"

A gun cracked, and then something else, something that both was and wasn't a firearm. It sounded like a man sighing and yelling at once, a sad, mournful note. _Hao! Hao!_

Two sighs.

Someone screamed.

Footsteps. One, two, three.

"You wanted to see it," Rex said. "You wanted to see what I carried. Are you sure now?'

"Ahh –"

"Curiosity. Curious thing. Other guy's dead because you told him to shoot. You? Not yet. You see this? See this thing you wanted to see?"

"Wha –"

Rex grunted. My heart had long since iced over. "Funny thing. Death. Comes in all forms and flavors. But me, I wasn't content with the finality of it all. So I reached into a grave, dug my fingers in the ashes. And that thing in the grave, well, it answered me. It gave something back."

Something clicked. "See? I can tell a story. It's one that's been written and wants to be written again. You, you're just standing in my way."

"No –"

_Hao!_ The mournful thing cried again.

Silence. A long pause hung over the warehouse. My pulse deafened me – _thump, thump, thump_. All of the sudden, lights flickered on, so many lights, both a relief and a terror shining down from a hundred white bulbs in the ceiling. I couldn't move.

Rex coughed. "I like to think before I act," he said, his voice echoing around the warehouse, bounding off the many crates and boxes in here. "I do not know what you were thinking, Terra. I'm not going to shoot you. Step up out of there."

Panic overwhelmed me. I glanced over the side of the crate to see him standing there in the open, an off-white pistol in his hand, smoke trailing from the barrel. He was looking right at me.

Every one of my nerves tingled. I tumbled out from behind my pathetic excuse for cover, crouching down and facing him, ready to jump away at a moment's notice. "Scared?" he asked.

I didn't answer, but another voice from behind prodded me. "Coming here alone was a bad decision. You are not as invulnerable as you think."

I whirled around. From behind a stack of crates strolled Arrian de Lange, a knife in each hand, a smirk playing across his face. I was boxed in.

"This is no place for a victor," he said.

I bit my lip and glanced between the two, looking for a way out. What did they want?

"What is it that tempts you to come here, this soulless place?" Rex said, twisting his gun in his hands and walking towards a mountain of crates at the far end of the warehouse. Now I saw it: A pair of bodies lie on the floor. White armor encased both of the Peacekeepers, and they were still. Rex had killed them both. "Creon Snow gives you assignments. Cyrus Locke talks to you like you're an equal. Elan Triste accepts your request to venture into the Capitol's cesspool. This makes you, what, a part of this establishment? A sixteen year-old girl, a year off of her own victory in the Hunger Games, suddenly capable of playing in Panem's most competitive league?"

The door I'd came in through was so far away. Even if I sprinted, I'd never make it before one of them gunned me down.

"She thinks we are here to kill her, too," said Arrian.

Rex smiled and holstered his pistol. "Looking for Gar – you found him, Terra. That body's him. Garres Bulwer's his name. Son of a streetwalker. Arrian here killed him."

My breath caught again as Arrian said, "Smallest mercy."

"Peacekeepers don't show up by accident, hm?" said Rex. "Not here. Just chance you happened to be here, otherwise I wouldn't have cared about Gar. Just a smuggler. But when Arrian learned you were following up on your meeting with Derva, well…"

Finally my throat cleared, and I swallowed enough fear to blurt, "What do you want?"

Rex laughed. "Nothing you'd know. Not yet. Now that I'm saying that, though, there is something I want. Assets."

"Reckless and persistent," Arrian said. I glanced towards him as he sheathed his knives, looking back towards Rex just as he crept behind the mountain of crates.

"I know why you're here, Terra," Rex said, slipping out of view. "All the way back to that party, I knew Creon Snow pegged you for something. Strange, really. You're an average victor, normal teenager, really, but Creon was so suspicious of his council, so afraid of the circumstances surrounding his father's death, that he wanted any newcomer – even a fifteen year-old victor – to trust, so long as they knew less about this game than he did. Imagine my surprise when I've seen you want to believe in him. President Snow. You want to believe Cyrus when the man tells you Snow's going to change Panem for the better. Yet here you are, skulking in dark warehouses, playing the same game of intrigue that has ruled this city for a century."

Rex stepped out from behind the crates, but he was no longer Rex. Gone was the handsome Capitol artist I'd met that night of Calla's party. Stepping out was a towering man, all muscle and strength. His skin was pale, almost white, his hair as black as the night sky.

He smiled. "Look at yourself. You fit in so well in this city."

"Wh-who are you?" I stammered.

"Who am I?"

"What hap-happened to Rex?"

"Rex is a cover. There is no such man as Rex Rousseau. I enjoy playing him from time to time, but you, me, Arrian, the smart victors, we're good at pretending to be people, hm?"

I gripped my flashlight as if it'd run away, my fingers going numb from clenching. The man who had formerly been Rex glanced towards the Peacekeepers and said, "My name is Suleiman. Arrian is my apprentice."

Arrian smirked when I looked over my shoulder. "This charade comes down to one thing," Suleiman went on. "You're following Creon Snow's order to hunt down clues to his father's murder. You won't find a better one than right here."

"What?" I breathed.

"Gar is a smuggler of advanced technology from District 3," Arrian continued, perching on a box and frowning. "Was. Music chips and doo-dads for everyday people, yes, but every now and then, something dangerous. Something like high-grade weaponry. Like a mine."

"When you're powerful and someone's no longer useful, what do you do?" Suleiman asked. "Why would you keep them around when they know too much?"

My chest heaved. "I dunno anything about this. I'm just – I'm just – I want to get out. I'm just a mentor."

Suleiman laughed. "You don't need to lie to me, Terra. I know who you are. District 5 and the Hunger Games and tributes, they don't matter to you. Sponsorships and vapid socialites are boring. You've had a taste of real influence. This game of whispers and backroom conversations and power is the one that really intrigues you."

"If one would want to give real information to Creon Snow," Arrian spoke up. "It is not Gar he needs to be worried about."

Suleiman smiled. "What do you think I was doing that night we went to Calla's villa, Terra? Business? While you were fraternizing with the elites, I was digging through Calla Snow's computer archives. I found more than enough to make his head spin. More than enough to convince him that anonymous district rebels didn't assassinate his father. But I sure can't tell him that. Only someone he trusts could drop that kind of bombshell."

He looked at Gar's body with a sad sort of expression: "So either your fact-finding mission for Creon ends here, or you tell him the hard truth: That he'll only find the answers he wants when he suspects his own child."

I swallowed hard and pressed my back against a crate. "Are – are you gonna hurt me?"

"We won't see each other for a long while," Suleiman said. "I am going east once these Hunger Games are over. Arrian with me. I have no reason to hurt you. But I know this sort of game tempts you, this one where you live as someone larger than a normal nobody from District 5. This is a dangerous game. Coriolanus Snow died because of it. I wouldn't walk in his footsteps."

He nodded to Arrian. "My leave. Safe trip back to the Training Center, Terra. Don't forget what Creon wants to know. And –" he tossed a black cylinder to the ground in front of me. "Spare flashlight. In case yours dies. No shame in being afraid of the dark. The whole Church of the Triad is. Until next time."


	52. The Tipping Point

"I know having to stay in the Capitol until the Games are over is a pain. I know you're probably feeling horrible, and Fenton and Mari…we didn't really think over things as well as we could have. But the last few days here are a good time to learn things and cultivate relationships. You'll be here many more years, and learning now's important. What I'm saying...or what I'm trying to say…Terra, do you want to talk about something?"

I lowered and shook my head. _No Finch, I don't want to talk about the stupid Hunger Games_. Not like those mattered, what with only four kids left. At this point, one of Drake's two kids was going to win it. Woo-hoo. Hooray for him and Finnick.

Finch slumped down onto the couch beside me. "Hey," said my mentor. "You know you can tell me anything, right? That's what I'm here for."

I nodded, but didn't say a word. _Anything?_ Ha.

"I've been hard on you, I know," Finch sighed, rubbing my shoulder. "It's not that I want to crush you or anything. This all is terrible. Fenton and Mari were good kids, and every year it's two new good kids. Add that to all the stuff that goes on during the Games, and I don't know what you've gone through, but I can imagine, and it's just hard. I understand."

She inhaled sharply. "You start to see yourself in your kids after a while. There's bits of me in you, bits of Daud. You fight like him, don't give up like him, and you're a thinker like me."

I fretted. "Not really."

"You're not giving yourself enough credit. And just because everything we tried this year didn't work doesn't mean it won't in the future."

"Won't work most of the time. I can't do anything about that," I grumbled.

"You're not some bimbo on a poster and on television. You're not just make-up and fancy clothes. I know, and Daud knows, even if he's terrible at saying so. You're our victor, Terra. We just want the best for you, hm?"

I smiled, just a little bit, and looked down at my lap. It was strange hearing this from someone, _anyone_, not just Finch, but maybe especially her. Finch, with all her thinking and analyzing, saying something from the heart instead of the head.

"Every year too, for a week, you're gonna be something to two kids," Finch said. "It'll be tough, and I'm trying to help you learn how to be tough, alright? Because one day you'll be their mentor for more than a week. Maybe it'll be soon, maybe not until a long while like with me, but it'll happen eventually. But until then, I want you to know you can come to me with anything. I won't judge. Same with Daud, although he's not much of a conversation. That sound alright?"

I nodded, but mine was a gesture from the head. I couldn't come to her with anything, judgment or not. Maybe that worked with all things Hunger Games, but a few weeks in the Capitol had taught me that I was much more than just a participant in that little spectacle.

Especially tonight.

**/ / / / /**

Everything glowed on the streets of the Capitol. The neon of storefronts, bars, and restaurants, jam-packed with debaucherous revelers celebrating the death of one of the 97th Hunger Games's final four. Three tributes to go, two from the same district. It was District 4 vs. District 2 now. The sky glowed, a yellow, golden glaze blown up from the glittering towers. The faces of buzzed patrons and the gowns of staggering drunks sparkled in the night air.

I wore black. My hair, my tunic, my boots, the hood that shadowed my face, all black like the night sky back home. I felt cold despite the warm evening breeze. With my jaw set, I walked in one direction – straight to the Presidential Mansion.

A pair of Peacekeepers stopped my outside of the gates off of the Avenue of the Tributes. "Wrong turn, girlie?" one of them asked, cradling his rifle and strolling up. "What d'you want?"

The other one snorted. "Can't tell, Tibor? She probably wants me. How 'bout it, missy? Guard duty gets a man a bit restless."

"Got that ice queen look about her. She'd probably shank you in the act."

"I'd wake you up first," I growled.

A Peacekeeper behind the gate stood up from where he was leaning, cracked open the iron grate with a loud _creak_, and grunted, "That's the victor, you idiots. Let her in."

They backed off immediately, and I saw why in a moment. He was one of the Peacekeepers with a black band around the armor of each arm. These ones seemed to command respect, whether they were special sorts of Peacekeepers or Capitolian-born soldiers or whatever made them distinct from the regulars. Whatever it was, this one beckoned me inside.

"Here to see the president?" he said, his voice low and rumbling like distant thunder. "Wrapping up a meeting with Locke."

I tried to look him in the eyes, but only that black, inhuman visor met my gaze. "It's important," I said.

The palace was near-empty at this hour. Gone were the courtiers and workers and whoever else always filled the halls whenever I was here. In their place, emptiness and haunting silence drifted about above the velvet carpet. The portrait eyes of past leaders followed me as I walked, and I pulled my hood lower to just above my eyebrows to keep out their staring. _What do you bring at this hour, on this day? _asked the men and women framed and frozen. _Bad news for the one who rules?_

Cyrus and Creon were alone when I knocked and entered the Assembly Hall. Everything seemed so still in here, the two men, the little statues that lined the walls, the great meeting table, the chandelier, the light reflected in from the great crystal windows, everything. It froze me before I could step more than two paces into the room.

Creon looked up first. "You can go, Cyrus," he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

Cyrus sucked in a breath, frowned, and did as he was told. He stopped at the door next to me, still frowning as he put a hand on my shoulder before walking out and closing the door. It shut with a particularly deep _thud_.

The president didn't say anything at first. He folded his hands behind his back, raised his shoulders, and said, "I'm sorry about your tributes."

"They tried," I mumbled. I didn't want to go on about that subject, not here, not with him of all people.

"Trying's not enough of this sort of game," Creon said, turning at last and walking to the table. He tapped a gray orb on the table, activating a holographic map of a coastline with a few scattered settlements arranged in a semicircle about a central city. "Results are what matter. The best of intentions don't mean anything without the force to back them up."

"What's the map?"

"District 4. Yesterday we crushed a pocket of insurgents, and today their tributes are poised to win this farce. I'd hang Galan Greene if I didn't know he was incompetent. I hate the Hunger Games, but if they have to exist, a Head Gamesmaker should know better than to give terrorists a rallying point by letting the wrong tributes win."

His eyes drifted across the map. A glimmer of sadness, of something else, something gray, drifted across them. "It's a cruel joke we even punish rebellion by killing children who had nothing to do with the uprising in the first place. A hundred years ago, and still no one lets go. These fools call it entertainment."

I folded my hands, and after a long pause, murmured, "Do you miss being in the districts?"

He pursed his lips. "Why do you ask that?"

"The way you talk about the Capitol."

"Loyal subjects don't rebel against their leaders," said Creon, eyes drifting back to the map. "But rightful rulers don't crush the ones they rule, either. When I led the armies in the districts, I found the subjects weren't loyal at all. But they were a bit better at faking serving than the people here are at ruling. Here they don't even pretend to be righteous."

He scowled. "You're a victor. You've seen both sides of the equation. What would you do if you ruled Panem?"

I bit my lip and thought it over. It felt like a test, like Creon expected something of me – but what was I supposed to say when I had something far more pressing to tell him, something I was still welling up the courage to say?

"You give everyone a vote?" he said before I had a chance to speak. "Democracy? I've heard that fairy tale. Couple decades and it turns into mob rule, or the powerful learn how to rig the voting, turn it into an oligarchy."

"I'd let the right people decide how to rule," I said at last, my voice small. "The ones who can earn people's trust."

He smirked: "You'd find some consequences to that."

"I'd manage."

"Is that what you'd have me do as president? Manage?"

_Drake, you'd better pay me for this_. "Whatever's happening in District 4, it sounds like you beat them. Is it so bad if they can have another victor?"

He closed the map. "Why'd you come?"

So the time came. I squirmed, my hands clammy, my throat closing before I at last said, "You wanted me to look into your father's death. I might have something."

"Might?"

Now came the moment of truth. Did I trust in what I'd seen Arrian do, what I'd seen that Suleiman do? I didn't know, _reall_y know, either of them, but I knew enough to understand they had strength that no one else did.

"A source told me," I said. "There's an archive with information about the man who smuggled things in from District 3, things like that mine you said killed the last president. But I can't reach it."

"The Capitol archives? You could've asked Cyrus or anyone else like him. They all have access."

"It's not that. It's private."

He looked up. Creon's expression hardened. "Whose?"

"Calla's."

Creon paused for a long, long moment. He stared at me, emotions flying past his eyes. His hands gripped the table. "You're accusing my daughter of regicide?"

"I'm not –"

"My daughter. My heir. My only child. The mother of my granddaughter."

"I talked to Cassandra, and –"

"Get out."

I froze. Creon's scowl was all ice and steel.

"Get. Out."

He didn't need to say it a third time.


	53. The Changing of the Guard

_**+ Experimenting a bit with the writing style for this chapter. Feedback always very welcome!**_

**/ / / / /**

I shouldn't have cared about the fight. The Hunger Games were over for me and District 5, our tributes dead. This oncoming show down between the two kids from District 4 and Achilles from District 2 wouldn't decide whether or not I had a child to mentor next year. Yet I fought back nerves as I sat on a couch on the tenth floor of the Training Center, Phoebe next to me, the two of us waiting for the 97th Hunger Games to conclude.

We'd welcome one of these three kids to our ranks next year. I could only imagine the anxiety Drake and Finnick felt now, so close to winning, yet potentially facing the agonizing decision of watching one of their tributes kill their partner. It wouldn't be like what I'd done to Glenn. This wouldn't be a mercy kill. It'd be a kill for the win.

I'd barely paid attention to the two of them, but I knew what their winning must mean to the Odairs. For Finnick's sake…and maybe even for Drake's, as hard as that was to admit to myself…I wanted them to win. It didn't hurt that their competition had killed both Mari and Fenton without a shed of remorse. If I had anyone, _anyone_, in the arena to wish an early death on, it was Achilles. Maybe it was fate returning the favor for what I'd done to his brother, but right now, I didn't care about balancing accounts like that. I wanted revenge for my kids.

Phoebe tucked her legs in to her chest and said, "It's not very dramatic."

I disagreed. Galan Greene and his Gamesmakers were doing a great job setting up the fight in my eyes. Rain had just begun to poor, turning the foggy, soaking, chilly forest into a quagmire of mud and sludge. Achilles had figured out what time it was: The boy sat on the lowest step of a terraced stone pyramid the size of a five-story building, his sword in his hand, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead. The downpour had made the stone plaza around him slick and treacherous.

Outside the Training Center, the Capitol's night sky was no less foreboding. Thunder rumbled far off in the distance like some old beast calling from the depths. Dry lightning flashed over the mountains to the west, just a flicker, but enough to tell me a storm was on its way.

The two from District 4 were on their way. I lay back against the cushions, closed my eyes, and waited for what came next.

**/ / /**

The man couldn't shake the words.

In the minutes and hours after the meeting, the man had brushed aside the information. _Unsubstantiated counsel from an untested source_. Why had he trusted his informant in the first place? He had no more reason to trust her than he did any of the others who whispered advice and intelligence in his ear, a round-the-clock white noise of secrets and lies.

He wished he knew how much of each his counselors told him.

The two men flanking him were silent as they walked up the drive to the colossal villa. They had reason to be: The man hadn't picked anyone to accompany him. Certainly not simple bodyguards: These two were members of the Black Rings, the best of the Peacekeepers' best, signified by the dark bands on their arms. If nothing else, they knew how to hush up about things.

The villa's owner was out. She'd be watching the Games with her posse, out until the sunrise or later, indulging in who-knew-what until the world hazed over. The man didn't understand the appeal. _He_ hadn't resorted to such shallow entertainment when he was young and in his prime, but then again, he hadn't lived here, either. Not in a villa, not in the Capitol, and definitely not in a place where the Hunger Games were the end-all, be-all for most people on a stormy summer night.

Even though the giant house was empty, the man pulled his cloak's black hood over his face as he approached. He'd told no one he was coming. The owner, most of all, couldn't know.

"Stay outside," he snapped at his soldiers as he stepped up to the gold-inlaid front door of the place. "And bar entrance to anyone."

One order was enough for the guards. The man pushed open the door, stepped inside, and let it close with a _thunk_ behind him. The rumble echoed in the bright foyer, a dazzling, glittering entrance hall large enough to host the Capitol's most luxurious parties. The man sighed and lowered his hood. He shouldn't have let it come to this, but the words ate away at him, the suspicion nagged and refused to go away. The accusation sounded preposterous.

But how much did the man really know his daughter, or what she was capable of? It'd been his father who had raised Calla.

Creon Snow sized up the hall, took a breath in, and pulled a pistol from his belt.

**/ / /**

The downpour had grown so bad that the two kids from District 4 didn't look like they could see more than ten feet in front of them by the time they arrived at the pyramid.

"That must suck," I murmured, only half-listening as Cicero and Caesar blabbed about the odds of the coming fight.

"Duh. I think the death stuff probably sucks enough," said Phoebe.

Achilles stood up as he saw them. His sword was thick and strong, but for all its power it lacked anywhere near the reach of the spears the two from District 4 carried.

"Would you two mind hurrying up?" he called. "I'm wet."

The boy from District 4 stopped his partner. He nodded to the left: "Go that way and cut him off. I'll handle him at first."

"Screw that!" she argued. "I'm fighting too."

"Just –"

"I don't care what you say. We'll fight him together."

Achilles watched without a flicker of emotion. "Like what they've done with the place?" He said with a fret, glancing up at the sky. "I'm not a fan of the weather. Every hour it gets worse. Mutts drive you here? Lightning or something? I doubt you just waltzed up to me."

Upon receiving no reply, he sighed, "Fine. Can't have a conversation. I'm Achilles. What's your name? Names?"

The girl scowled. "Mela."

"Hm. Mela. Mela and…?"

The boy grunted. "Mela and Grunt," said Achilles. "Fine. Mela and Grunt, are you really that eager to stab me to death? Is that on your list of pressing concerns? I mean, I don't remember doing anything to either of you. We could just talk for a while."

"Grunt" wasn't having it. He charged ahead of his companion, lunging at Achilles and whiffing.

The boy from 2 sighed. "Just can't talk with these creatures."

He wielded his sword, and suddenly, I saw what trained fighters in the Hunger Games could really do. These three were more than Delfin and Acheron. Grunt lashed at Achilles with his spear, metal clashing on metal as the boy from 2 blocked, hopped away, and swung laterally. He struck air as the boy from 4 dodged, his partner whirling in for a strike. Achilles was a blur. He countered Mela's blow, forcing her spear back as Grunt jabbed again, missing by a hair.

_Clang!_ The sound of angry steel howling against steel drowned out the downpour.

**/ / /**

The house was too quiet for Creon's comfort. Calla wasn't one to station guards around her estate, but he couldn't be too careful. His daughter had left Cassandra with Bera and the Sharpes more and more recently, but what if the girl was home? He couldn't very well convince his granddaughter, the one and only one person he cared about, that he was here on innocent business. That would be convenient, but a lie. He wouldn't lie to her. Unacceptable.

_The archives_. That was what Terra had said. Creon kicked himself inside for trusting the girl. Terra Pike seemed the honest sort, and she'd been so much more agreeable than everyone else he'd surrounded himself with. Taurus was too ambitious and controlling. Lucrezia was too unpredictable. Cyrus was stuck in the old ways and unable to move on from Creon's father. Julian was a hedonist. Galan was a cretin masquerading as a Gamesmaker. Rigel didn't have an original thought in his head. Deceivers, all of them, consciously or unconsciously. Some no better than thieves.

When he took office, Creon knew he had to surround himself with advisors who could tell him an honest, hard truth. He'd been met with the worst sorts of both spectrums, those who would lie for their own sakes and those who would lie because they knew no better.

Terra? She was new, fresh, an unknown commodity. He'd seen dreams in her, brains too, but also fear, timidity, and anxiety. She was scared about what would come next. Did that make her a liar as well, or someone frightened enough to tell the truths that had to see daylight?

For whatever reason, Creon had listened to her. The nagging voice in his head wouldn't let him turn her information away without seeing for himself.

The spy drone he'd released that morning told Creon where to go. The fact that it got into Calla's estate told the president his daughter didn't have a great mind for security. Basement. Second level. Concrete staircase behind the hidden panel with the bookshelf. Calla watched too many spy thrillers.

The basement was a far cry from the rest of the house. Here it was dark and gray, all metal and cement and functionality, whereas the rest of the house was designed to impress the Capitol's socialites. Creon kept his gun out as he descended. Even though he'd gotten this far without incident, he had no idea if Calla had guarded her data archive with any defensive measures. _How had Terra Pike of all people learned about this?_

For a sixteen year-old girl from District 5, Terra was useful.

A hallway loomed down the second floor as Creon stepped away from the staircase. He clutched his gun, but his heart didn't race. He'd faced this kind of thing before, back during the insurrection in District 8 that he'd put down, back during the District 11 riots, hadn't _he_ been the one to confront the dangers of the districts? Sometimes, the dangers came home. Deep down, that commander and soldier he'd once been yearned to be free of the prison that was the presidency.

The air felt still down here. A single door at the end of the hallway beckoned forth. Creon approached, weapon at the ready, prepared for whatever burst out in defense of his daughter's secrets.

With Calla, anything was possible.

**/ / /**

_Clang!_

Achilles shoved aside Grunt's spear as Mela came in, swiping at his torso. He dodged and grabbed her shoulder, dancing away as he shoved her towards the pyramid. Retreating from the two, Achilles caught his breath and said, "This – this isn't going anywhere. Come on. We can solve this without rushing at each other like animals. Some – _huh_ – some sort of civilization to this mess. At least a little order. Hm?"

The boy from District 4 leapt at him again, his spear thrust to impale Achilles square in his stomach. He bounced away just in time to avoid being skewered, knocking aside Grunt's spear with his sword before raising the weapon to counter the next blow. He jumped up a step on the pyramid, catching Mela's attack with his sword before lunging at her partner.

Achilles struck Mela with his fist and drove her off, turning his attention to the boy from 4. On and on they fought, their breath tiring, their attacks growing sloppy with exhaustion. They'd been at this for a solid five minutes at least, and by now both were burnt out. Achilles grabbed his opponent's spear shaft, pushing aside and driving his shoulder into Grunt's chest. Both toppled over, and Achilles just rolled away to avoid Mela's killing blow.

"Shit," Mela groaned, catching herself with her hand before swiping at Achilles with her spear and missing badly.

Her partner made the first mistake. "Grunt" lurched at Achilles, his movement sloppy, his attack rushed and slow. The boy from 2 jerked back and caught the spear shaft under his arm, wrenching the weapon away from his opponent.

"Oh no," Phoebe breathed. She grabbed my hand, and instinctively, I clutched her grasp hard.

Achilles took advantage of the mistake. He tossed the spear aside, smacked "Grunt" in the face with his fist, and burrowed his sword up to the hilt in the boy's chest. The boy from 4 gasped gazing down at the wound in awe, baffled by Achilles killing him here at the Hunger Games's climax.

Mela howled. She lunged at Achilles with her spear, a madwoman exercising the last of her strength. Achilles toppled over. He shoved aside Mela's spear a moment before it would have destroyed his face, throwing it to the side and pulling her into him. She punched, missing, striking stone, and yelping in pain. Achilles bit down on her shoulder. She screamed. Blood spurted when Achilles pulled away, bits of flesh hanging from his mouth.

"Pah!" he spat, throwing her to the side and spitting out his mouthful of girl. "Hell!"

Mela had one last burst of strength left. She snatched her dead partner's spear, hoisting the weapon high and bringing it down with a sickening _thunk!_ The spearhead burrowed deep in Achilles's torso. His eyes bulged, his mouth gaped. He looked up at her, unable to fathom how she'd gotten past his defense.

She gasped. Out of three tributes left, her partner was dead. Her opponent fell back, panting, bleeding.

Achilles twitched.

Blood spurted from his injury.

With his last ounce of strength, he reached up and grabbed Mela's hair. She twisted away, smacking his face, desperate to get loose. The boy from 2 wouldn't let go: With every gram of energy left in him, he reached for his sword, clutching its handle with his fingertips and thrusting it upward.

The blade slashed. Next to me, Phoebe yelped as a crimson line opened across Mela's neck.

Achilles threw her aside, blood spraying across his chest. He exhaled, slumped back, and let his sword drop.

**/ / /**

The door opened without a single line of verification.

Creon stepped into a dark, cramped room, gun at the ready. A half-dozen computer screens lined this place, some active, some not. White and blue lines of text and imagery ran across the open displays. A lone chair beckoned the president to come forward, waiting impatiently in front of a keyboard and a blackened screen.

Some sort of trap? Maybe, but worth the risk. Creon sat down, laying his gun on the console and opening the first security screen he'd found. Basic stuff. It was a genetic scanner, looking for proof that, indeed, Calla Snow was trying to access what was inside. He'd prepared for this. For Peacekeepers and the Capitol army, this was nothing more than standard procedure. Creon swiped a gene sample he'd had ever since Calla's birth across a scanner, accessing the computer without a second's hesitation.

_Is this all, daughter? Nothing more to hide your secrets with?_

Not all, it turned out. One more security verification awaited Creon before he could access Calla's secrets – and find out if Terra Pike told the truth about his father's death. It was a retinal scanner, a test of one's eyes. For most, this would've been the end.

Not so for Creon.

His own father, Coriolanus, had seen to that. Every Snow since then, Creon included, hadn't needed more than one parent. They had the same DNA, the same physical characteristics, the same _everything_ that made them a dynasty in every sense of the word. There was a reason Calla had no mother, and Cassandra no father. With the Capitol's labs, two parents were a hassle.

_Identity confirmed_, read the computer as Creon looked into the scanner. _Welcome, Calla Snow._

That was that. Now came the moment of truth, the moment where Creon would figure out just who he could trust – his daughter, or the new girl, Terra, the victor who he wanted to dismiss as some district brat but couldn't after all this time. He was afraid of what he'd find. More than anything else, Creon was afraid that he really could trust Terra.

Something was wrong. Black and red lines scrawled across the computer screens. Creon frowned, looked down at the scanners, and waited for some sort of response.

Something shifted. Something mechanical twitched, and the screens went dark. The computer roared. Fire flashed.

**/ / /**

I gasped as Mela fell, blood spurting from her neck. Phoebe moaned and looked away, covering her face with her hands. Just as I wanted to look away, too, a distant bolt of lightning far off towards the Capitol's outskirts caught my eye.

But it wasn't lightning. It was a blast of fire, a brief snap of orange and white in the direction of the villa district. A shock wave rattled the windows.


	54. President Snow

_**+ Big thanks to Obedient Student for the kind review, and for all you readers for the big bloom in viewership last chapter! Book 2's coming to a close soon, and I want to thank everyone who's followed along for the support. **_

**/ / / / /**

"I want to see him. I want to see him now."

Julian gritted his teeth. "You _can't_. Are you listening, Cyrus? He's dead. _Dead_. Done. A bomb doesn't leave you half-dead when it blows up in your face."

Cyrus wheeled around, his face full of confusion and rage. For a normally soft-spoken man, he filled the greeting hall of Julian's villa. For once, Cyrus's walls has fallen.

"I'm not buying this for a minute," he hissed. "I spoke to the president yesterday. He doesn't just walk out in the middle of the night to be killed. Do they know who did it?"

Julian shook his head. "I only know what Galan told me an hour ago. Two Peacekeepers were outside Calla's estate. They took the blame."

"Where are they?"

"What, you want to question them yourself?"

"Yes."

"Good luck. They're dead already."

"_What?_"

"Did you think Taurus or Rigel or whoever shut down traffic in and out of the city this morning – without my consent, the bastards - wouldn't use a scapegoat when they found one? Do you think they're going to give everyone the impression they're powerless? There is nothing you can do for Creon. He's dead. You don't have to take my word for it. Turn on any of my televisions and see for yourself what the news says. He's dead. If you start poking your nose around this, you're going to run into all sorts of trouble."

"What do you think this? Damn it, Julian, someone murdered the one we advised. You and I. Part of the blame's on us."

"That is so –"

"If you want to stay and fart in your mansion, do it. I'm going to talk."

"With who?"

"With Calla. It was her estate this all happened at."

Julian caught his arm. "She's not Calla now, and if you keep talking about her like that, it's not going to end well for you, my friend."

"And what does that mean?"

"What do you think? She's going to serve you tea and scones if you talk to her like a normal person on the street? Come on, Cyrus, we've all seen Calla for who she is, between all those fancy parties and wild affairs. She will not be the president her father was. She won't be the president her grandfather was for that matter, although that's a lot closer. Give her whatever stupid reason and she'll have no problem exiling you to District 12 for however many more years you have."

"So what?"

Julian paused and licked his lips. "There'll be an investigation."

Cyrus snorted and waved him off. "And if they find anything beyond pinning the evidence on their dead scapegoats, I'll go into the Hunger Games."

"Careful what you volunteer for. But the last strong president in Panem just died. Calla's more interested in the status and the image of ruling than the intricacies of rulership. Others will be doing that in her place. Last time I checked, we qualify."

Cyrus narrowed his eyes and took a step back. "You're suggesting treason."

"Stop thinking with your ideals for a minute and think with whatever's behind your face," groaned Julian. "We can't stay away from the Presidential Mansion too much longer anyway, so we'd better get our story straight. Whoever murdered Creon, whether it was two lackeys or someone we know or someone we don't – and I wager on the latter, since regicide's a bit obvious for the ones in power – we can't do anything about it if we make a big public stand. But someone has to make the decisions now that Creon won't be, and it won't be our current _President Snow_. Do you want Taurus doing that? Worse, Lucrezia?"

"You're saying we turn Calla into a puppet. We usurp our president's – damn, that's hard to say – authority. I call that treason."

"_Agh_, I don't know what to say to you. Is it treason if she's a narcissistic imbecile? Is it really treason if everyone else certainly has the same idea anyway?"

An awkward silence settled between the two of them before Julian pleaded, "Our new President Snow is a loose cannon waiting to fire, Cyrus. Someone has to pull the strings. That won't just go away, even if you want it to go away. We can be those people, or others who we know all too well can be those people. Is it going to be that, or are you going to charge into the Assembly Hall and commit suicide by idealism?"

Cyrus sighed. "This is dirty."

"Well, killing Creon was dirty too. We find them one day, you can tell that to their face. We have to look ahead."

Julian raised an eyebrow. "Are you in?"

"Why not let me commit suicide by idealism?" Cyrus grunted, staring off into the marble steps of one of Julian's spiral staircases.

"Well, your job's a little more prestigious than mine, and you're not Taurus or my uncle."

"That's enough to trust me?"

Julian shrugged. "It is now."

Cyrus frowned. The shock of the news hadn't left him yet. Julian was a good thinker, despite being the glorified head bureaucrat of the city, and what he said made sense – even if it all felt wrong. Cyrus had invested his whole life in Coriolanus Snow's regime, and he had been ready to use the rest of it turning Creon Snow's reign into a successful one. Now that was gone. His life's work was tossed down to the impetuous hands of a thirty-something year-old new president best known for her social activities.

But Calla wasn't the real opponent now. She was little more than a particularly arbitrary roadblock. Try as he might, Cyrus couldn't deny Julian's truths. Others would take advantage of her weaknesses in a heartbeat. The best thing he could do now was fight the internal struggle for Panem's future, even if it meant turning against the man he'd always believed himself to be.

Crazy times.

"We'll do it your way," Cyrus said. He slumped his shoulders. "I'm, not looking forward to this."

**/ / / / /**

An invisible weight crushed against my chest.

I didn't know what the Peacekeepers wanted. The morning after the 97th Hunger Games ended, two soldiers barged into the Training Center's fifth floor. I was alone. It was the smallest consolation I could manage: No sooner had I looked up than one had grabbed me and clamped a hand over my mouth. I struggled, wriggled, and swiped at the air before the other grabbed my hands and looped a band of plastic around my wrists. The Peacekeepers were efficient. No more than a minute passed between their rude entrance and their dragging me out of the elevator and into a waiting black-windowed car.

I huddled into as small a ball as I could in the back seat, pressing my head against the window and biting my lip to keep from crying. The plastic tie was too tight, and my hands ached, each wriggle and pull making it worse. Beside me, the Peacekeeper clutching his rifle didn't look eager to give me any slack. He didn't look like much of anything, what with his helmet's black visor shielding his face.

My thoughts raced. What did I do? I didn't have to think too hard, however: it was obvious. _Shouldn't have told Creon about what Suleiman and Arrian said_. I'd underestimated the president, I guessed – or overestimated his tolerance for information. Either way, my accusation must have made him mad. Mad enough to drag me out of the Training Center at the hands of two Peacekeepers?

_And then what?_

I shuddered. Thoughts of Pavo drifted past my eyes. How exactly did they rip avoxes' tongues out? Did they just…yank? Was it some machine? The thought that I'd find out soon petrified me, and my leg trembled on its own accord. I felt nauseous.

Would they even bother with keeping me alive, or would the president just kill me if he was that mad? _How did they even kill people here_? Even more horrible questions circled my head. _Were they going to sell me off like Pavo and have Daud kill me? _As much as I had faith in my mentor, he was a broken man. What was killing some girl who'd angered the president to him?

The car lurched. "We're not going in the front?" the Peacekeeper in the passenger front seat asked.

"Cameras," said the driver. "Too much attention on all this anyway. We'll go in the garage."

_Too much attention_. Shit, had Creon announced to the news that he was going to kill or avox me? The humiliation of that thought alone hurt almost as much as the idea that I might soon be dead.

Bright lights and stark concrete walls greeted me as the Peacekeepers pulled me out of the car. I bent my head low, nearly tripping over my own feet as I stepped out. One of the Peacekeepers clamped a hand on my shoulder and forced me forward.

I knew it. We _were_ going to see Creon. The Presidential Mansion felt so much more intimidating as a prisoner, or whatever I was. I couldn't so much as look at the paintings or statues in the halls. My stomach threatened to throw up breakfast at any moment. _Great. Add vomited eggs and scones on the floor to whatever people are angry about._

"Move it," the Peacekeeper behind me grunted. I whimpered and stumbled, catching my balance at the last second before we reached a staircase.

"Don't mess her up," the Peacekeeper in front of us said. "President wouldn't like that too much. Heh."

"Why d'you think she's interested in this chick? Kinda homely as far as victors go. Tiny rack. Not even in the same universe as the girls I was checking out the last few days."

"'Homely?' Coulda just said plain. But man, I dunno. Save it for later. People probably listening."

I pressed my arms against my chest, eliciting a snort from the Peacekeeper behind me. Apart from the heat washing across my face at their comments, I felt confused. Why did they pivot from talking about the president to talking about _she_ – and I figured _she_ meant Calla, if "interest" meant what I thought it did – just like that? Had I misread what Creon felt for his daughter all along, even after all those times he'd claimed to barely know her?

My breath froze in my lungs at the sight of the great doors. One of the Peacekeepers knocked twice, and I buried my chin in my chest.

_Creak!_ I looked up with my eyes. My heart pounded. There was everyone watching me – Calla standing at the head of the table, Taurus to her right, Cyrus to her left, Lucrezia, Julian, Rigel, even the stupid Head Gamesmaker. Everyone but one.

Where was the president?

Calla snorted. "You don't have to tie her up to bring her here. Although I might not mind that in a different setting."

"Precautions, ma'am," one of the Peacekeepers said. "Wanted to be safe with someone dangerous."

"We're not in the arena," said Calla, looking annoyed now. "She's about as dangerous a chipmunk out here. Cut her loose."

I shivered as one of the Peacekeepers pulled out a knife and sliced my restraints. Rubbing my hands together, I shuddered and whispered, "What do you want from me?"

"Hmm?" Calla asked.

"Is there something you want?"

She smiled and looked away. "Terra, talk to me properly. You've been around here long enough."

I looked around, confused. What? Of the entire group facing me, Cyrus Locke looked away, his hands folded, a wry frown upon his lips. The Peacekeeper to my left grabbed my shoulder and commanded, "You'll address her as her correct title and name, President Snow."

_Uh._

_What_.

I looked around, my mind reeling. What in the…what…

Sensing my confusion, Taurus spoke up: "President Creon Snow died last night. What do you know about it?"

If I had words, they died in my throat. _Creon Snow died last night_. What? How? I swallowed hard, trying to digest Taurus's bombshell and managing to whisper, "What do you mean died?"

"An assassin's bomb," Lucrezia said. "Planted in the home of our new president. I believe it was a ploy to wipe out their entire line. What do you know?"

Cyrus glanced at Calla before cutting in: "He trusted you enough to let you in our meetings, Terra. He must have told you something about what he was up to last night."

_Oh shit_.

Creon wasn't mad at me for what I'd said. Oh no. He'd listened. He'd followed up.

_And now he's dead_.

I swallowed hard. _This is on my shoulders_. Oh, what had I done? It wasn't just the guilt falling down like a shower on me, either – it was knowing the president, a man I'd just thought was going to kill me, was dead. He'd been the president, sure, but he'd also been a man who'd taken out the time to talk to a sixteen year-old new victor, a scared girl adapting to the Capitol and mentorship, and treat her like any other human being.

And now he was dead. Because of me. I'd led him straight to his death.

I'd sign my own death warrant if I admitted that here. Time to lie. "I – I don't know," I stammered, trying my best to put on a good act. _I knew exactly what he'd gone to find_. "I mean, he said things –"

"Things?" Lucrezia pressed.

My eyes felt as if I stepped into a desert, and I blinked rapidly. "He was – the president was – said – he was worried about things happening –"

"What things?"

"He wanted to know who – or what, or things that might have happened – about his father's death."

"We already have the reports on that," Taurus said, his voice grave. "Creon was always a suspicious man. Where did he send you?"

I hesitated. No one would buy the story of where I'd run around to, and if they did, I'd be in even worse straights. "Some of you said to keep an eye on the victors," I stammered. "He wanted me to watch them for assassins instead."

It was the best I could think of as my teeth chattered, but surprisingly, Taurus ran with it as soon as the words left my mouth. "There you have it, Miss President. I don't think Terra Pike can give us anything more."

That baffled me. Was Taurus of all people helping me? "I agree," Julian added. "She's a teenage girl. Let her do her mentorship things. Playing court advisor is a waste of time."

"And resources," Rigel cut in. "Whatever your father wanted with her, Miss President, it was fruitless. We've more important things to deal with. I'll show her out."

Good gods. I couldn't believe my luck. With Creon…dead_, how weird that sounds_…this was the worst place I could imagine to be. I was nothing here, I had no defenders, and worse, I had no purpose. If anything, they'd use me for who knew what. Settling into being a mentor and focusing on the Hunger Games for the foreseeable future sounded about the best job I could land.

I was just about ready to turn about and march out the door when Galan Greene spoke up. "Let's just wait a minute. Miss Pike worked with the last president. She knows the ins and outs of this…all this stuff. Maybe she's useful. You know. Why throw away something that might work out, huh?"

The way the Head Gamesmaker looked me over told me he had something more than _useful_ on his mind. I shuddered and wrapped my arms around my chest.

Calla – President Snow, whatever – twirled a pen between her fingers. She stuck out her lower lip, eyeing the pen as if it might disappear at a moment's notice and keeping the room waiting. After what felt like a solid minute, she said, "I agree with Galan."

I clasped my hands together and looked down. "District 5 has two decent mentors already," Calla said. "Or at least, they must. Terra made it out of the arena. Do they really need to have three when there's only two tributes every year? I can find things for you to do, Terra. I want you close. Come to think of it, I can think of something right now."

She held up her hands as if framing a picture. "We're only a few years out from the hundredth Hunger Games. This is historic. A hundred years since the Dark Days. What better way to illustrate it than having the right representatives market it? Think. Drake Odair, my grandfather's last victor. Terra here, my father's one and only victor. And now my first victor, Achilles McRath, winner of the 97th Hunger Games. Districts 2, 4, and 5. That's a good mix."

Calla pointed at me with her pinky. "And then if my father thought you were so great at spying, why don't we keep that up, hm? You can spend as much time with your victor crowd as you want. In turn, you tell me everything you hear. I think that's giving us a _lot_ more, Taurus."

Taurus looked as if he wanted to swat her like a fly. "Of course."

Calla walked up to me, _swaggered_, really, and put a finger under my chin. She tilted my head up and said, "So smile for her once! Go party with your other victors. Tonight I'm going to crown Achilles. Me. Better be smiling by then."

I backpedaled out of the room, scanning the faces one last time. If I thought I had to get to know them before, I _really_ had to now. Everything had changed, and I'd have to do a lot more to keep up.


	55. END BOOK 2

_**+ Big thanks to FoxfaceFan1 for the review! Final chapter for Book 2. Here we go!**_

**/ / / / /**

The Training Center common floor was quiet. Now that the Capitol had opened up the trains to leave the city again, the other victors began to flee back home. I didn't blame them. Our train back to District 5 would be one of the last ones out, and the pressure of waiting in this turbulent, charged city in the wake of so much change felt grating.

Solitude didn't help. I'd run from others to hide the shame and fear over what I knew – over what must have happened, over what could have happened, and what lay ahead. The question was obvious: Who killed Creon?

The easy answer was Calla. Between the Gar business and going all the way back to the dismissive way I'd seen her address her father, she certainly had no love for the ex-president – and she'd made out pretty well in the wake of his death. But the obvious answer didn't seem like the right one here.

Suleiman and Arrian? Arrows pointed in that direction. Suleiman's cover as Rex, slinking away into Calla's estate during her party, looked a lot more suspicious now. I questioned every little thing I'd heard Arrian say since meeting him back in District 5. Had it all led to this, one giant manipulation to push me into leading Creon into a trap?

It was a little more plausible than Calla, for sure, and definitely a possibility. No way could I guess at their motives if they had done it, however – and those two seemed to know way too much before Creon's death as it was. Would killing the sitting president even help them?

Option three – one of the members of the council did it. Again, a bit obvious, but the motive was definitely there. Creon wouldn't have let them push him around, and his long-term agenda and ideals were a radical departure from the Capitol image I'd grown up knowing. But I had no idea who would pull the trigger in planting a bomb in Calla's estate. Taurus? Doubt it. He preferred subtlety. Same with Lucrezia. Rigel? I hardly knew the chief Peacekeeper, so maybe. Julian? Cyrus? I thought they were better men, but what did I really know after all this?

Then there was option four, the one I found most likely: Whoever killed Creon remained in the shadows. As much as I'd learned about the Capitol these past few weeks, this city was vast. It would take a dozen lifetimes to learn all the places where a resourceful killer could hide.

Despite all these possibilities, one thing was clear: I'd told the president where to go to die. Whoever was ultimately responsible for this, part of the blame lay with me.

The weight of that made me nurse a strong drink, my hands trembling as I swished the alcohol around the glass. Now I had no choice but to keep stumbling forward, keep smiling for the cameras. What was the point of it all? As much as Creon had been a suspicious and humorless man, he was ambitious for the right reasons – and there was something else about him, some sort of air I hadn't felt before. Something fatherly, almost.

Now I'd never know what it was.

I groaned at the sound of someone stepping off the elevator. "Who is it?" I mumbled into my glass.

No one replied for a moment. Then came a soft chuckling, and finally, "Is this really what a victors' party looks like? Yeesh. Why is every light on in the middle of the day?"

I didn't need to look up to know who'd arrived. Bowing my head, I said, "Leave me alone."

"Whoa. What'd I do to you?"

"Leave."

I clenched my jaw and looked up. Newly-crowned victor Achilles stood near the door, his hands on his hips, an amused smile playing across his face. He didn't look as if the Hunger Games had touched him at all, what with his clean-cut hair, stylist-cured skin and spotless white shirt.

He rolled his eyes. "Man. Vids weren't kidding about you. One hello and you're biting my head off."

I turned back to my sorry drink as he went on, "You know, I really shouldn't like you. You killed my brother, after all. Snuck up on Acheron while he slept. But guess what? I hated that kid. Hypocritical excuse for a brother. He was always so quiet and humble in public, then the moment you got into private, he didn't hesitate to lord about anything he did better than you. If he'd won, god, that'd be horror. So no, I don't have a beef against you."

My fingers ached as I clenched my glass as hard as I could. "But man, you must be taking this hard to be this mad, huh? What, you friends with those tributes you had? The guy your lover? Or the girl, I'm not judging what you do in private. But hey, you killed, I killed. We did the same thing when push came to shove. We're just alike, you and I. No stupid heroics. Just surviving. So, how about we start over where I got off the elevator and saw you bending over your drink, and –"

His hand grazed my shoulder. At his touch, I leapt to my feet and swiped at him with my fist. Off-balance and tipsy, I missed by a mile as he watched me flail. I threw my glass at the wall and snarled, "Don't touch me, you vicious shit!"

He smirked. "Alright then. Can't argue with crazy."

I sunk into the couch as he left. The loneliness felt even worse now. The last thing I needed to see after all this was the face of the boy who'd killed my first two kids, and the way he treated it like such a…a _routine_ thing gnawed at my heart. My time in the arena hadn't left me. For Achilles to call us alike, for him to compare our fights as anywhere close to being on the same wavelength, disgusted me.

Maybe, deep down, that was because there was some truth in that.

I fell asleep clutching my glass. By the time I woke up darkness settled over the city outside, and a hand shook my shoulder. In my sleepy stupor I lashed out with a hand, hitting an arm and receiving a grunt of discomfort for my trouble.

"Gah. You don't have to hit."

_Crap_. Not Achilles coming back. Drake. I didn't know if that was any better, however. "'M sorry. Thought someone else…"

He frowned at my spilled glass on the floor. "Your mentors're looking for you. Are you just napping?"

"No. Yes. Tell them I'll come."

Drake looked at me with an uneasy glance. "Alright."

"Wait," I said, stopping him halfway to the door. "Sorry."

"'Bout what?"

"Games," I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. "Your tributes. Kids. Wanted to say sorry about them at the end."

Drake sighed. "Yeah, well, we're kinda in the same boat. I'll get over it."

"How?"

"Huh?"

"How do you –" I said before stopping myself mid-sentence. Dumb. I must have sounded like a complete idiot. "Forget it. I don't even know why I'm asking you of all people."

"Great. That makes me of all people feel wonderful."

I slumped back over on the couch. "Yeah, well, I'm just a crazy victor. You can't argue with crazy. Don't mind me."

"Terra, what the hell? Are you taking a dig at my mother now?"

"Oh jeez. No. Look, just go away and go back to hating me. It was better like that."

He exhaled a lot louder than necessary. "No, I don't hate you. Never hated you."

"Swell. You're the second victor to tell me that today. At least I had a good reason to piss off Achilles."

"You met Achilles?"

"Yup."

Drake walked over and picked my glass off the floor. "First off, you need to stop binge drinking and wallowing, or you're going to end up like Haymitch."

"That sounds lovely."

"I can't be serious for one minute? Yes, you're kinda crazy. And you lose your temper too fast and push people away and take everything personally."

"Keep going."

"No. I don't hate you, dummy. I'd _rather_ be friends with you, since we'll be seeing each other a lot for, oh, I dunno, the _rest of our lives_. You got along fine with some of the others. If you don't want to be friends, can we at least talk to each other like two normal people, rather than doing whatever the hell this is every time we chat?"

I teared up. I didn't know why, but my brain decided to shut down there and then. Like an idiot, I lurched at him and grabbed his shirt with both hands before pressing my face into his chest. He stepped back in surprise, but I leaned forward and let myself fall into him.

"You're actually the worst listener I've ever met," he said.

"Please don't go," I blubbered. "Just for a little bit."

He didn't say anything for what felt like a long time before wrapping an arm around my back. "Fine. Just for a little while."

**/ / / / /**

For many people here, autumn was beautiful in District 12.

The Hunger Games were a faded memory by now for all but two unlucky families, three months since the 97th Games had come to a close. The televisions spoke about "big changes" coming to Panem, about one President Snow dying and another one taking his place. It was all the same to the people here. Goings-on far away in the Capitol didn't dampen the vivid red and yellow curtains that draped the sturdy oaks of the Seam. The coal mines were as bad as ever, but the Peacekeepers had eased off. Something had made them cautious, worried, something most everyone in District 12 couldn't figure out. Still, the why behind that didn't matter. A little leniency was nice. Soon winter would come, and with it, the struggles of starvation for many in the Seam. It meant choosing between buying food and buying extra blankets, between bundling up the young son or the young daughter. Best enjoy the present while it lasted.

For Donnel Oates, however, the present wasn't so good. He was a coal miner in the Seam like so many others – or _had_ been.

It was bad enough when the pox outbreak had taken his wife a few years ago. After the disease had subsided, he'd hardly known what to do with his life.

Now life told him. It wanted him to die.

_Bloody ridiculous_, he thought, shivering in his thatch bed and clutching his ratty blankets. He couldn't keep down even runny porridge for more than ten minutes. Specks of crimson flew from his mouth every time he coughed – which was often. Even the blankets couldn't keep him warm, despite the fire he'd started in his old stone fireplace and the warm early autumn afternoon. He was sick, but it wasn't just any old sickness.

He'd seen this sickness ravage his wife. He'd seen it cut down a quarter of the district before dying away. How had it come back, here, now, and to him?

Donnel had done the only thing he could imagine – isolating himself from everyone else, in the hopes that no one would catch this horrible thing. He had no doubt it would kill him. He just couldn't live with the thought that anyone else died because of his ailment.

He started when his front door creaked open, the old iron hinges whining and moaning. "The hell're you doing?" he barked. "Who is it?"

A young man of average height with red hair, hazel eyes, and a pleasant, clean demeanor walked in, carrying an armful of blankets. "Mr. Oates?"

"Get out, idiot!" Donnel snapped. "I'm sick, dammit. Get out before you are, too."

"I know."

Donnel narrowed his eyes as the man continued, "One of the Peacekeepers reported you were sick. They suspected the pox had come back. No one wants what happened before to happen again here, not after how so many died. I'm from the Capitol, sir. I'm here to try and make you feel better."

Donnel swore. "Fat chance of that. From the Capitol? So now you start trying to help? Damn you, kid. Go back to your shiny houses and whatnot."

"I know you might be mad –"

"Oh really? Is that what you learn in the Capitol?"

The Capitolian nodded, his face turning grim. "I don't think you want this to spread, do you? We don't either. Do you think it's good for the Capitol, for District 12, for anyone in the country if another plague outbreak happens? We're on the same side here."

Donnel sighed and lay back in his bed. Whatever. Stupid kid could shoot him dead now if he wanted. It wouldn't make a difference. For that matter, he was surprised the Peacekeepers hadn't already if they'd learned about him.

"You here to finish me off?" he asked. "Do it quick. I don't want to linger around like a dog."

"I'm not here to kill you," the Capitolian said. "I'm just here to help. I'm not going to lie, I don't know if there is a cure to the pox. But I can try and make it hurt a little less. If I can help a little bit, that's fine by me."

"Real good sentiment. Look, you don't sound like as much of a dick as the Peacekeepers, but take my advice and screw off. You're not going to find much good around here. Not around me at this point."

The Capitolian motioned at his blankets and said, "How about I change out those rags, then? At least'll it keep you warmer. Those things are full of holes. That might work for a summer night here in the Seam, but for a sick guy? Not so good."

"Fine," Donnel sighed. No arguing with this kid.

The Capitolian pulled the blankets off slowly, folding them carefully into a neat pile of brown and yellow hole-pocked cloth before laying out his sheets over Donnel. They were nice: All fresh and new and made of stuff that must have come from District 8.

"Make sure to burn those if you aren't gonna leave 'em," Donnel said, nodding at his old rags. "Gonna be covered in germs."

"I will. I might be back later, or someone else. Try and rest, Mr. Oates."

The Capitolian picked up the ratty blankets and closed the door with nary a _thump_. He bundled the rags under one arm, strolled off towards a trio of old, thick oak trees a ways off of the main street, and pulled a small black canister off of his belt before disappearing behind the trunks.

A blink of an eye later, Suleiman walked out from behind the trees.

He pocketed the canister and clutched the blankets against his waist. _As good as gold._ Persuading the sick miner had been even easier than he'd expected. All there was left to do was the last part.

Suleiman made for the Hob.

The unseasonably warm and sunny day made for a big crowd at District 12's black market. Despite his height and his pale skin, Suleiman had no problem blending in with the crowd. Everyone was here on business or for socializing, not to gawk at a newcomer. Besides, Suleiman had even dressed for the occasion – if wearing a torn and dirty old shirt counted as being dressed.

He knew exactly what to expect a dozen feet in through the back door of the Hob and ten feet to the right. Against one wall was the soup lady, as Arrian had called her in his report, an old, gray-haired, and wrinkled woman stirring a tarnished pot of something red and thick while a handful of scraggly Seam natives ate at a table nearby.

She glanced up as Suleiman approached. "You new here? Haven't seen you. Just find out about the Hob or something?"

He shrugged. "I'm, a…bit of a loner. Not really all that great with crowds."

She frowned. "Now you are?"

"I was hungry. Wanted to see if I could sell off any of my crap, too."

"Right place, a'least," the old woman said. "You work the mines?"

"Ah, yeah. Not a miner. I do the blasting."

She snorted. "'Splains why you're a loner, then. No one wants to be friends with someone with a short lifespan."

"Oh, that's truer than you think."

"Alright. Whus it gon' be?"

Suleiman nodded at the pot. "That looks good. How much?"

"Sixty sols."

"Ah. Um…here's the thing. I'm a bit…short? Right now. Wanted to see if I could barter a little. Throw in a coin or two with it."

The soup lady stuck out her jaw and said, "Watchu wanna trade?"

Suleiman fished a pair of coins out of his belt, slapped them on the table, and held up his blankets. "They look bad, but if you don't like them as blankets, sew them into clothes. Or a rug. Or curtains."

"Ha! Curtains. Tha's a good one."

"Hey, being creative. I'm not so good with my hands, and it's not like I have anyone with me to do the sewing. So, twenty sols and the blankets for one bowl. How's that?"

The old woman stiffened her lip, crossed her lips, and relented. "Fine, a'right. My granddaughter wore a hole in her last shirt anyway. Maybe I'll try an' sew her a new one. Patch the holes wit' what I can."

Suleiman smiled, dropped the blankets on a table, and picked up a wooden bowl full of steaming soup. "Mind if I have a look around while I eat?"

"Do what you do. Just bring the bowl back"

"Mm, count on it," he said with a smile. "I'm not in any rush to leave."


	56. BEGIN BOOK 3

_**+ Welcome to the next installment of **_**Veil**_**, Book 3! Now Terra's not only survived the Hunger Games, but also faced off with the shadowy danger hiding in the Capitol. New monsters lie in wait for her in the wake of Creon Snow's death and the Hunger Games take a step up, but we'll look beyond Panem's central city in this book. Follow along to Districts 4, 5, and beyond, where simmering tensions may lead to angry outbursts. Behind it all lies a hidden darkness pulling at the strings of the country as the light of day wanes in Panem.**_

_**Thanks to FoxfaceFan1 for the great review, and to everyone reading and following along! Feedback is always appreciated! Also, slight time jump forward in terms of the story. Additional also, I have a feeling this book's going to be a monster in terms of length. Just a heads up. **_

**/ / / / /**

Redhammer was no place for an outsider. Peacekeepers _especially_ did not belong.

Rufus's hand twitched on his rifle's grip. Even late at night, a decent crowd still filled the natural, rocky halls of District 5's poorest sector, cut straight into the walls of the canyon. Some watched, their eyes nervous and suspicious, while others scowled and hurried past. None interfered – his weapon and his armor made sure of that. Still, Rufus was eager to get out of here. Two Peacekeepers wouldn't last long if a mob swarmed them.

"I can hear your panting through my helmet," said the Peacekeeper in front of him, a big, burly man named Valens. "Calm down. Everything's alright."

"Place just gives me the creeps," muttered Rufus. A young woman glared at him as she picked up speed, rushing past him with an armful of dirty laundry. "The torches and sputtering light bulbs aren't helping. It's like something out of a horror story."

Valens snorted. "It's not that dark. There're shadows, but there's light enough to crowd them out."

"Isn't that the kind of crap these religious nutjobs talk about? Lights and shadows and whatever?"

"You'll find out soon. Guy whose house we're busting into shouldn't be in. Sort through whatever you want."

"What kinda house are we talking about?"

"Lord, would you relax? You're not shooting anyone tonight. Keep up."

Valens picked up the pace. Rufus slunk behind him, cradling his weapon a little tighter. His companion's confidence didn't inspire him. Valens always had that sort of overwhelming belief that whatever they were doing would work out. To Rufus, the world wasn't so black-and-white, good and evil. Too many shades of gray slipped around these halls, and too many slippery types longed to emerge from the walls and get rid of a pair of Peacekeepers.

"Have you ever been to one of these kinds of places?" he spoke up as they trudged through the rocky passages. "Churches, or altars, or whatever the hell they are?"

Valens didn't say anything for a minute. Finally, he said, "Have you?"

"No. Why would I?"

"To open your eyes a bit, maybe. We've been here how long, eight years each? That's a long time not to get to know the people we're keeping an eye on."

"Really not the time to get preachy, man."

"Just an observation."

Valens held them up at a plain, splinter-covered wooden door. He leaned in to hear, and upon seeming satisfied, kicked it open. A glowing fireplace met the two, with a fresh blaze flickering against the sharp stone walls. It was barren in here apart from a small altar at the far end of the large, high-ceilinged room across from the fire place, beside a second splinter-covered door. Three wood-carved statuettes stood atop it, one the shape of a man cradling an orb, the second a woman clutching a spear, the last a hooded finger holding out his hands, blooms of fire emerging from his fingertips. Whoever had carved them had real talent, Rufus had to admit.

Little else adorned the room apart from a few wooden benches and a brown thatched rug lying in front of the fireplace, an iron casket next to it holding a pair of iron pokers. It felt cozy in a strange, sleepy way.

"What're we looking for?" Rufus asked.

Valens looked around and said, "Check the altar. Tell me if you find anything."

_Sure_. Rufus didn't know what "anything" meant, but he took the time to run his hand over the third figurine, the hooded one. Rufus laughed, "This little thing kinda reminds me of that guy I dragged in the other day. What was his name? Creepy-looking dude. Suspected him of stealing, but he admitted way more after we hit him around a bit. Confessed –"

_Bang!_

Rufus's leg gave out before he realized what happened. His arm flailed, his gun flying from his grip as he collapsed to the ground. _Bang!_ Another gunshot, this one knocking the wind out of him. On instinct Rufus clutched his stomach, only seeing after a moment that blood seeped out from under his hand. A crimson pool expanded under his left thigh.

He reached for his gun, but a white-armored boot kicked it away first. Valens stood over him, his rifle leaned over his shoulder. Rufus groaned in pain: "What the hell are you doin', man?"

His fellow Peacekeeper walked towards the fire, picking out a poker and laying the end into the fireplace. Behind Rufus, the second door creaked open. A simple-looking man, maybe forty years old with short brown hair and soft brown eyes, walked in, carrying a torch and smiling. He looked up towards Valens for a moment before addressing Rufus: "There's no one to raid tonight, unfortunately."

"Wha – who're you?" Rufus asked. "Oh – _oh_ – no, no. I know you. That crazy preacher guy. Leave me alone, man."

Pyre York shook his head. "I can't."

"I haven't done nothing to you!"

"You have," Pyre said, drawing closer and holding his torch aloft. "I know who you are, Rufus val Alin. You're a Peacekeeper, but that is no crime. Your list of crimes is what concerns me."

Pyre circled around him, just out of his grasp. It wasn't as if Rufus could fight him in his state: Pain shot through his waist with every tiny movement he made, and his leg felt as good as dead. "You're a sadist," Pyre went on. "You're an abuser of woman and of power. You revel in corruption, indulging in any misguided method of making money, even when it comes at the expense of the innocent."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Valens! Valens, man, please –"

"He told me about you," Pyre said, holding out his hand towards the other Peacekeeper. Valens kept his poker in the fire, but by now the end was red with heat. "He told me about your vices and your evils. He told me how you two have been here so long after growing up together in District 2, stationed in a faraway land, only to see you fall for the sins of man. Valens, in the other hand, has seen the truth in the world. He first came to me two years ago. Today, he believes. The Moon herself has led him from the Night, and today the Light guides him. He can withstand Shadow's temptations. But tonight we're not here about guidance. We're here about you."

Valens walked back to the two, holding the poker aloft. He pulled off Rufus's helmet despite the latter's futile attempts to cling to it.

"Only one of our watchers can judge us," said Pyre, taking the poker from Valens. "And the Flame has seen your crimes. You have fallen too far for the Light to ever save you."

Pyre aimed the poker at Rufus's eye. The Peacekeeper screamed.

**/ / / / /**

He was a scruffy-looking kid, brown hair, gray eyes, olive-ish skin. Besides that, average in every way. He wasn't too tall or too short, too skinny or overweight. He'd scored an eight in training, good for his district but not overwhelming for the audience, and certainly not the best out of this year's tributes, although better than either of mine. With that motley mix of attributes, he'd done something that hadn't been done in forty-nine years: He'd won the Hunger Games as a tribute from District 12.

"I bet Haymitch was drunk during the final fight," Drake said on the couch next to me. "He probably thinks Quintus and Lyric's girl won."

The Training Center common floor was empty besides us. It was an all-too familiar thing, but here in the wake of the climax of the 99th Hunger Games, it felt right.

"Lyric's probably pissed," I said, leaning back and watching as Cicero and Caesar _ooh_ed and _aah_ed as the hovercraft that had scooped up the newest victor scurried away from the arena. "She actually got really into the sponsorship game the last week. I didn't even have time to talk to her."

"Was she taking that new girl around?" Drake asked. "Lapis, or whatever the hell her name is? I never even met her. Like I feel bad. Boo-hoo, District 1 can't win two years in a row again like Lyric and Quintus did. God that would've been awful. Three straight years of Districts 1 and 2 winning if this new guy hadn't pulled it out for 12. Blech."

I frowned at him. "She didn't come. Quintus said so the day we arrived."

"Oh yeah, I believe him. The victor of the 98th Games not coming to the 99th? And a victor from 1 at that? Sure."

"So they say. Quintus told me in private that she's…not taking it well. At least, for a victor from their district. So she didn't come."

Drake laughed. "Bet Gloss and Cashmere took that well."

We were quiet for a moment, digesting the end of this year's Hunger Games. Our club grew a little bit larger. I wondered what kind of a victor Roan Hawthorne from District 12 would be: Would he be like last year's winner, a shiny, gallant girl from District 1 who had trounced the competition and then disappeared? I'd never spoken to her once since the Victory Tour, and then Quintus had told me she hadn't come for this year's games. Would Roan be like Achilles, reveling in the win and drawing the public's love ever since? If he'd become anything, I hoped it wasn't like me.

I had real business this afternoon to attend to, after all. The last thing I wanted was for another victor to be caught up in my messes.

"Well, you think about how you want to talk to our new victor. Roan. Whatever kind of name that is," I said, standing up and dusting off my pants. "I have to go talk to other people."

Drake swatted at me and missed. "You're just leaving me to sit here all by myself? Pshh. You're rude. Like the rudest person I've ever met."

"I know. I hate you too. Tell your dad I like him more than you."

He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Yeah, I bet you go for old guys. I'll just encourage him if I tell him that. See you after the closing ceremonies business. Go get lost, Terra."

I wished I could just get lost, but I was doing anything but.

Sun glittered off the windows of the Presidential Mansion. It was hot, _really_ hot even for a summer day here in the Capitol, and the heat made the tall building look as if it were wobbling. The gate guards knew me well enough by now to let me in without a word, and I went straight past the colorful watercolors on the walls and the glossy white statues to the top floor.

Heavy, bronze-inlaid doors waited for me.

The Assembly Hall was quiet today. Fractals of multicolored light danced on the walls, scattered into hundreds of glittering shapes by the great crystal windows on the far side of the room. The old table stood between me and that colorful kaleidoscope, but it wasn't the only obstacle.

Taurus Sharpe sat at the head of the table. A holographic image of…_something_…lay open in front of him, red and green dots scattered about it.

"You were on the schedule for five minutes ago," Taurus said, his voice quiet and deep.

I shrugged. He ignored the gesture and went on moving dots around the hologram. Silence filled the gap between us for what felt like a minute, and I squirmed in my chair.

Finally, after I felt on the verge of walking out, I said, "Did you want me for something?"

Taurus continued to shift dots around for a few seconds before saying, "Yes."

"What's the hologram?"

He frowned. "A map of District 4. I don't expect you to understand what that district means to us."

"What're the dots?"

"They are not your concern."

He closed the hologram, leaned forward with his elbows propped up on the table, and said, "For two years Calla has kept you around. Whether she wants you for something meaningful or for her own personal interests, I do not know, nor do I care. But if you are going to be around this table, you should make yourself useful."

I picked at my finger. "I have the Hunger Games to be useful about."

"Losing two tributes at the Cornucopia this year was useful? You're digging a deeper hole."

I scowled at him. I didn't need a reminder about how my two kids this year had fared.

"You're not a child anymore," Taurus said, folding his hands. "You're eighteen. An adult by any district's standards. When my daughter Bera was your age, I had her managing our family finances. You get by with the occasional useless input at these meetings. That might be enough to endear Cyrus Locke, but it is not enough for your station."

"So…"

"So it's time you started pulling your weight."

He stood up, folded his hands behind his back, and stared me down. I had to look away. "When this ceremony for these foolish Hunger Games ends, you will return to District 5. Over the next year, I have a job for you."

I folded my arms and pressed them to my chest. "Sure."

"Several days ago, our Peacekeeper commander in the district reported one of her own dead," he said. "Thrown on the banks of the river that intersects your district, before the poorer part of town."

"Redhammer. I've been there."

"I don't care where you've been. The corpse's eyes were gouged out, and from what I hear from the garrison, it's a message. I've seen reports from your district. That religion that infests it has been let loose for too long. You'll learn all there is to know about this faith – what they're doing, what they plan to do, and what they aim to get out of it."

Gods, his gaze was intense. "What do you want me to do about it? I can't stop them. I'm just one person."

He frowned and leaned across the table towards me. "Do you think I expect you to put an end to a movement like this? You can't keep your own tributes alive. You won't stand a chance fighting zealots."

"I'm grateful for the vote of confidence," I said, looking away.

Taurus walked away from the table, turning towards the windows. "I know what you think, that I'm suppressing their speech. That's exactly what I aim to do, and I want the information you gather to tell me how. Too much speech and men go wild. I await the day you can explain to me how making an example out of a few miscreants is worse than putting down a district full of rebels."

"Is this what Calla wants?"

Taurus turned back to me, his frown deepening. "_President_ Snow has other matters on her mind. She leaves me with keeping order in our country while she engages in her frivolities."

"She's your boss."

"And yours, by the letter of the law. Do you think that matters?"

I huddled lower in my chair, trying to evade his gaze. "What am I supposed to do first?"

"I'll send someone to keep you on track," he said. "And I expect information on these cultists. If you're more than just a silly player in the Hunger Games, you'll provide some real results."

**/ / / / /**

_Creak!_

The hinges on the wooden crate protested as Brooke Larson lifted the lid. Beneath her, the fishing boat rocked to the motion of the sea. It smelled of oil and grease and salt, its thin metal floor and walls too vulnerable to the power of the sea.

Her protégé had done well. Wade Fowler had used the cover of a big fight in the Hunger Games to board a train from the Capitol bound for District 4's Peacekeeper fortress, the Presidio – right on schedule, just as the information from the pale man had said. Now he'd retrieved this crate and nine just like it, full of…well, just _look!_

"Munitions," Rio West said beside her, reaching his hand into the crate. "Where did you get this?"

"Does it matter?" Brooke asked. "Rio, we've been waiting two years. Two years since they hit us hard and burned us out of our old meeting spots. Look at it! This was all going to the Peacekeepers. Rifles. Grenades. Storm and Sea, this is an _RPG!_ Are you arguing?"

Rio grabbed her shoulder. "Of course I'm arguing! Where did you get this from? If the Peacekeepers were waiting on this, they're going to know it's missing! We've evaded notice for this long, are you that eager to bring them down on us before we're ready?"

"But we'll be ready! Soon!" Brooke protested. "Two years and they've thought we were goners. You and I have built us back up. Maybe it takes a few more months, but it won't be long before we can make a difference!"

"A difference?" barked Rio, sweeping his hand over the crate. He steadied himself as a wave smacked the boat, knocking the two of them off-balance. "We rose up once already, Brooke! Maybe it was just a riot, just a test, but we got nowhere! They're too well-armed. We have to wait for the right moment, and that isn't now! We attack the Peacekeepers too soon, and they'll put us down for good, not to mention what they'll do to our children and their children. You know what happened to District 13?"

"I'm a victor, I know –"

"Do you? Do I have to remind you? Wiped out. To the man. Their district eviscerated."

"I know. We won't make the same mistakes."

"If you want to engage them in open combat, we _will_ make the same mistakes!"

Rio turned away from her, pressing his palm to his forehead. "Damnit, I know you mean well. But think about our ultimate goal – a district free and independent, liberated from the yoke of the Capitol. We don't stand a chance if we run into their gunfire. We have to wait for the right moment."

"So what's the right moment?" Brooke protested. "How long are we waiting?"

Rio sighed, glancing down at the crate full of weapons. It _was_ tempting. "This winter. The Victory Tour before the one-hundredth Hunger Games. It will give us perfect cover for a chance to bolster our supplies and our position. Until then, keep low and do whatever it is you do as a victor. Above all, don't attract attention. When the time comes, we'll have our moment."He was


	57. The Stranger

_**+ Thanks for the reviews, FoxfaceFan1 and Obedient Student! Return to District 5 here – we'll be spending a lot of time in the district in Book 3, so I figured it'd be a good idea to clear up the situation going forward, especially since we've had a two year jump since Book 2 ended.**_

**/ / / / /**

Five o'clock and the stark autumn sun still hadn't set behind the canyon walls. District 5 baked as the desert air hung in the afternoon doldrums, not a single breeze blowing to cool temperatures that soared over a hundred degrees. The charcoal under my eyes had worn off an hour before, making the sun's brilliant white glare off the canyon river far below look all the more intense. Even the few animals that braved the daylight hours retreated to the shade, with seemingly every other shadowy crag in the rocks home to a lazy Gila monster waiting out the heat.

Only the humans braved the oppressive conditions that made up any average autumn day in District 5. With the noonday rest long since passed and supper still a few hours away, people scurried about on the dusty footpaths and streets below. A lone Peacekeeper all-terrain vehicle kicked up dust as it meandered down one of the larger roads, its drab paint and gunmetal gray roll cage a surprisingly welcome relief from the arid red and brown palette that made up everything else under the oceanic blue sky.

I loosened my head wrap to let a bead of sweat trickle down my face. It ran down past my lip, and I spat out the taste of salt and dirt. Watching the market district below from my perch on a switchback road near the lip of the canyon, I tossed a rock between my hands and kicked my legs over the side of the ridge.

"Terra. Catch."

I looked up in time to intercept a water canteen whizzing at my face. Blaze plopped down next to me, uncorking a canteen of his own and taking a long drink.

"Nice throw," I grumbled. "Are we done up there?"

He held up a finger as he finished gulping water. "Aah. Yeah. Orson told me to go home. Unless you're kicking to volunteer to work the evening shift as well. For no pay. And masochism."

"Har. Funny."

I sloshed the contents of my canteen around and slumped forward. Despite Blaze's tired jokes of why I kept working on the solar energy farms when I obviously didn't need to as a victor, I found something alluring about it. It made me _do_ something, for one. No way was I letting myself go crazy hour by hour inside my lonely house in the Victor's Village. More importantly, however, it kept my mind off of things I didn't want to think about. The six kids who rested in the ground because of what I hadn't done, maybe, starting back with Mari three years ago. Other things too, both close to home and not, things related to the Hunger Games and others decidedly less so.

"What're you doing when you go home?" I asked, taking a long drink.

He shrugged. "Taking a dump, probably. What 'bout you?"

"That sounds like a messy personal problem you should resolve."

"Hey, we all have it. You don't have cute poops just because you're a girl who visits the Capitol now and then."

I frowned. Tomorrow was the end of the week, our day off, and I had a question on my mind that I didn't want to let linger for two days.

"You know people, right?" I said.

He half-laughed, looking at me like I'd said something ridiculous. "Uh, yeah. I heard you do too, along with everyone else who breathes."

Gods. Could he ever have an actual conversation? "Woo, hilarious. I want to meet someone."

"Okay. And?"

"That preacher guy. Pyre York. I want to talk to him again in private."

Blaze stared at me like I had a disease for a moment before laughing and pressing his palm to his forehead. "Do you wanna get in line? It'll be a long wait."

"Come on, you know the guy. You introduced me three years ago."

"Um, yeah. Other people are busy too, Terra, including him. I haven't talked to him in private in over six months, and if I haven't, what makes you think you'll just walk up? You don't even go to church."

"Maybe I want to."

He opened his mouth to say something, scrunched his eyebrows, and looked away instead. It wasn't as if I could tell him why I _actually_ wanted to meet Pyre York. One preacher didn't mean much to me. Still, I had orders from Taurus – and more than carrying out what he said as a dutiful worker drone, I wanted to find out just why he wanted information on District 5's faithful. The Church of the Triad had never seemed much more than a relief from the everyday drag to most people, while others sought solace for past wrongs or tragedies. The latter certainly explained why Daud went there every week.

Taurus, on the other hand, was the exact opposite of a religious man. Did he really think one dead Peacekeeper in Redhammer meant Pyre and his other priests were scheming? That bordered on paranoia. Regardless, I wouldn't leave questions unanswered.

Blaze sighed and pursed his lips. "Terra…look, you don't need to talk to Pyre if this is about your dad. If you want to go to church, just do it. Nobody's going to say anything. We see that other mentor, Daud, all the time at the church downtown."

Oh, this veered into awkward territory in a hurry. "No, it's not about my dad. I don't care about that."

"No, you should. I get it if you do. One of your parents dies and it's a big deal."

"Not for me."

"You are awful at lying. Really. Look, if you can't talk to me about it than go talk to your brother. Keep it in the family if you want. Just don't bottle it up. You have enough of that in the other stuff you do."

"Why do you care?" I said in a huff, feeling angry all of the sudden. This conversation had gone _way_ beyond anything I had wanted. "We keep each other company six days out of the week up here. Do you have to probe, too?"

"Maybe that company means I think you're a friend."

"Sure. So why do you care about what I feel?"

"Lord. What do you think friends are for? Just to sit around and shoot the breeze with?"

_Ouch_. I know he didn't mean it, but that hurt. _Way to remind me how few people I have to confide in, Blaze_. Feeling cold, I stood up, dusted off my trousers, and sniffed, "Whatever. I'll see you in a couple days."

"Fine," he said with a shrug, taking another swig of water and turning away.

Well, I wasn't going to meet Pyre because of him. It wasn't just his comment about friends that hurt me, however.

A month after Roan Hawthorne had won the 99th Hunger Games, my father had died. My brother told me it was in his sleep, a peaceful thing, but as much as I wanted to feel something, I didn't. I didn't care. He'd been happy to toss me out into the working world young and had been happy to let me disappear into the Hunger Games, along with everything that followed.

Beyond that, he'd taught me a fraction of what others had since I'd emerged from the arena, particularly another who I'd seen die. As strange as it felt, I'd have saved Creon Snow's life every time over my father's. As I tromped down the path towards the canyon floor, I wondered what my relationship with Creon would have become had things gone differently. Strange. It wasn't a question I wondered about my father.

Maybe that made me a bad daughter. I didn't know.

The questioning didn't keep me from stopping by my family's cantina – now run mostly by Flint. For everything I'd gone through over the past three years, at least my brother hadn't abandoned me. He'd taken my father's death much harder, and I owed it to him to check up now and then.

A motley crew of patrons crowded the cantina's dusky bar area as I strolled in. I pulled off my head wrap and clipped my canteen to my belt, heading past the smoke-smelling bar where some strumpet Flint had hired served drinks to boisterous revelers. A thick hand grabbed me before I could pass through the doors leading back to my childhood home.

"Woman was asking for you," a husky baritone voice rumbled.

I brushed it off and looked up. Daud slouched over the bar, a vinegar-smelling white drink filling a glass in front of him. Palm wine. Figured.

"Anyone in particular?" I asked.

"Looked from around here," he said without looking my way. "Right clothes and hair. Woulda fooled anyone else. Capitol."

I hurried away without another word. Someone from the Capitol who wanted to blend in to District 5 was looking for me? That could be…plenty of people. Great. _What now?_

I found Flint in our basement, sitting on his lumpy bed that I'd slept across from night after night when we were little. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He looked up, dark rings under his eyes. The shadows cast by the dim lights of the little bedroom made him look sad. "Hey, sis," he said, his voice gloomy.

I did my best to smile. "Hey. What's up?"

"Whatever."

"Everything okay?"

He shrugged. _That means no_. "Money's doing fine. Don't worry 'bout me, Terra."

I hesitated, debating pushing him to talk or letting him continue on his own. The latter won out: "Mom's been shutting herself in her room the past week or so," he sighed. "She's not taking Dad's death too well."

"Are you?" I asked. Smoldering guilt built up inside of me, but not because I hadn't been here for them. It was because I didn't feel much for my mother's sadness. She'd never protested my father's decisions once, after all. If anything, she'd felt like a ghost throughout my childhood. I was worried for Flint's sake.

He shrugged again, and silence filled the gulf between us. It hurt, and I turned to leave when he said, "How do you do that?'

"Hm?"

"You just…I dunno. On TV, here, everything. You're just so stoic, sis. Like nothing gets to you."

Today was serious discussion day, apparently. I sat down across from him, the old, creaky springs of my childhood bed squeaking under my weight. Once I'd spent my nights lying on this lumpy mattress, listening to Flint ease my fears of the ghosts and devils that lurked in the dark and my pre-teen mind. Now I was doing the reassuring. "Things do get to me, Flint."

"It doesn't look that way."

"They're cameras. I'm supposed to look all victor-y."

He slumped his shoulders and lay back on his bed. "Yea, fine. You probably think I'm being whiny."

I grimaced. This felt like every time I'd tried to reassure my tributes of what lay ahead. Ugh. It made me feel so…helpless. Horrible. "I don't."

"Uh-huh."

"No, I –" I stopped myself mid-sentence, unsure of how much to reveal to Flint. _Screw it_. "You remember the last president? The one before the current one?"

"Yeah."

"I knew him right before he died. He was – he was a good person. That and my first two tributes dying, I didn't take that well. I just hid it. That probably wasn't the best idea, and…I mean…just talk to me if you want to, okay?"

Was it guilt that weighed on me? Unanswered questions? Even two years after Creon's death, I still felt an odd vacancy in my stomach when I thought about the harsh but just president whose reign had ended before it ever began. He'd been a tough man to be around, a leader who saw things in black and white and imagined enemies behind every corner. Yet there had been a personal touch to every conversation I'd had with the man, a softness that spoke of an aging leader who'd missed out on watching his daughter grow, on enjoying his middle age, on keeping track of the little things, all in the name of stability and order for the country that was eager to forget him.

Those weren't the kind of thoughts I could share with Flint, however.

"Yeah," my brother grunted, closing his eyes. "You've had kids die and other things. I'm just dealing with Dad. Screw me. Forget I asked, Terra."

"No, I…I want you to talk about it. If you want to. Okay?"

"Well, I don't want to. I know you mean well, sis, but just leave me alone for a bit, alright?"

I sighed, nodded, and beat a hasty retreat. Everything felt wrong around here. My family moved further away from me with every passing day. Daud and Finch were, well, _Daud and Finch_. I clung to Blaze for friendship, but what were we, really?

Every time I departed the Capitol, I left behind the few people I could really talk to, the ones with whom I felt like a normal girl. I came home to this.

Finch wasn't much help when I tried opening up to her about those questions over dinner.

"You can't get too bogged down in what other people think around here," she said as I pawed at a half-eaten bun. "And – Terra, don't just pick at that. You need to eat."

I bulged my eyes for effect and shoved the entire bun in my mouth. "You have money and fame now," Finch went on. "People are going to try and take advantage of you. I'm surprised they haven't already."

"I'm sure my brother and my friend want to take advantage of me," I mumbled around chewing.

She crossed her arms and scowled at her plate for a minute. Finally, she broke the awkward silence over her dinner table and said, "You know this year's going to be different, right? You haven't gone through a Quarter Quell. Daud and I have."

"Woo. Sure."

"I'm serious, Terra. My first year as a victor was the third Quarter Quell, when they Reaped all twelve year-olds. It's strange, there're twists, the Gamesmakers mess with things, and it feels horrible."

"Yeah, the last three years felt great. Not horrible at all."

"Hey. Knock it off."

I looked down and twisted the fabric of my pant leg as Finch went on: "I know it's a long way off. Still nine months 'til next year's Reaping. But it's not magically going to get a lot better if you don't get anything that's bothering you off your chest before then. If that means talking to your brother, fine. But Daud and I are happy to listen if you can talk to us."

_Then why does this feel so exhausting?_ I excused myself before she had a chance to protest and rushed away from her home. The Victor's Village was quiet, dark, and uncomfortable. I detested this place, its loneliness, its evening shadows before the moon had a chance to rise above the canyon lip and bathe down its light. It reminded me of every bit of alienation I felt in District 5.

Light poured out of every window from my house as I trudged back up the walk. Across the street, Daud's house was dark and quiet except for the downstairs living room. I lingered, debating poking my head in before pushing away the idea and walking up to my door.

I wasn't alone. A young-looking woman sat on the old wicker chair on my porch, her long legs crossed, her arms folded. She had silky golden hair, too light and glimmering for most people I'd seen, and too much a mismatch for her dull brown eyes. Her loose tan clothes could have fit in with the working crew along the solar arrays atop the canyon, but I certainly didn't remember this woman numbering among them.

"It's later than you come back most evenings," the woman said as I approached.

I frowned and stepped away from her as I walked up to my door. "Do you want something?"

"I expected you to arrive fifteen minutes ago."

"Er…do I know you?"

The woman caught my door as I opened it, letting herself inside before I had a chance to protest. "Quaint, in a way," she said, looking about my entry hall.

I opened my mouth to order her out, but at the last second I recognized her voice. _Wha. _I hadn't recognized her with that hair, those eyes, and most importantly, that skin. She must've been the one Daud had mentioned back in my family's tavern, for she certainly wasn't from District 5.

"Lucrezia?" I uttered, my jaw agape.

Gods. Without her usual blue skin tint and navy hair, the Capitol's spymaster had looked just like anyone else. "Taurus is concerned about you keeping an eye on this district's upstarts," she said, heading for my den and plopping down on the nearest chair. "Religious zealots, so my eyes and ears tell me. All led by a priest named Pyre York. Have you met this man?"

I gaped, still awestruck by the abrupt arrival of one of the most powerful people in Panem to my house. "I – I did. A couple years ago."

Lucrezia frowned. "I assume Taurus didn't task you with your assignment a couple years ago."

"N-no."

"Then you have not met him recently. Fine. What do you have on him?"

"What? I dunno. I mean, I remember him as an old guy. Cryptic. It was a couple years ago."

Lucrezia narrowed her eyes and stood up. "Nothing I didn't know already."

"I don't – what do you want?"

She brushed past me and stopped at the door. "You'll meet me at the Hall of Justice tomorrow at ten in the morning. I already know you have no prior arrangements. We'll discuss what you'll be doing then. Don't keep me waiting."

Lucrezia left before I had a chance to say anything more. I watched her leave, staring out into the darkness, confused, wondering what I'd gotten myself into.


	58. Inroads

_**+ Big thanks again to FoxfaceFan1 for another great review! As for the 3**__**rd**__** QQ, yeah, all 12 year-olds. Not exactly a momentous occasion in this timeline, but safe to say it was a bit of a snoozer as far as Hunger Games go. Not much detail so far on the 98**__**th**__** Games, correct – although we'll meet Lapis, the girl mentioned in chapter 1 of this book who won, later on down the line. For that matter, given that this is the year of the 100**__**th**__** HG, we'll be checking out quite a few of the past events (and their victors) in the chapters to come. Have I mentioned this is probably going to be way longer than the last two books?**_

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_No coward will act unless forced to – by an opponent, by random chance, or by the opportunity to usurp another's work._

Sometimes, when all he could do was _wait_ and stare up at the sky as plans worked their way to fruition, Arrian questioned Suleiman's words. His mentor had first said them years ago and stuck by them since. In his quietest and most alone moments, Arrian even wondered if _they_ were cowards. After all, didn't they slink about in the shadows, acting from positions of strength and avoiding detection?

_No,_ Suleiman always countered. _Our work is are on, and we do not react to our opponents. They react to us_.

Arrian believed that most of the time. But he wasn't perfect: In moments of doubt, when he worked alone and operated for days and weeks at a time without speaking to another, he wondered just how much of Suleiman's principle was confirmation bias.

One thing was clear to him, however. The people who called this place home _were_ cowards. They had piggybacked on the revolution of the Dark Days, riding the momentum sprung by resistance in District 4 all the way to a position of leadership among the rebellion. They had abandoned their allies in a life-or-death struggle in their greatest hour of need to hide in their tunnels and vaults. Then for a hundred years, they had shirked responsibility and watched despair and corruption seep into Panem's foundation without so much as lifting a finger to do anything about it.

Once Arrian had named the people who called District 13 home machines. That didn't seem so accurate now. Machines weren't cowards, after all.

Suleiman slunk out of the forest underbrush, nudging Arrian away from his thoughts. His mentor rested a long, thick-scoped rifle over one shoulder, his black hair full of twigs and nature debris. Green and brown camouflage streaks painted his face. He reeked of the swamp that surrounded District 13 to the south and west, and algae and mud stained his trousers.

"Perimeter patrol two hundred paces away," Suleiman growled, crouching down next to Arrian. The smell was even worse up close. "Heading north. They won't interfere."

"It's time for their shift change, anyway," Arrian said with a shrug. He leaned over to a gray plastic crate buried in leaves and loose dirt, pulling out a tablet and handing it to Suleiman. "The Capitol sends word."

The taller man narrowed his eyes, looked over the message in a flash, and set down the tablet. "Interesting proposal. Later I'll take him up on it. Not now."

Arrian picked up his own rifle and aimed it out of the forest, staring through the scope as he looked around. Two metal sensor spokes of District 13's detection grid hummed a hundred meters away. They were part of a network of sensors, some that stretched miles and miles out from the district. Those were for picking up things like Capitol armies or hovercraft, however. These were the sensitive kind of detectors, the kind that would pick up a rabbit crossing past them. Any human trying the same would have no chance avoiding the district's eyes.

Unless, of course, one had a way of telling the detectors what to see – or not see.

While Suleiman tapped on the tablet and looked up from time to time, Arrian reached back into the crate. From it he pulled a small, camouflage-painted drone no larger than a possum. Six spindly metal legs gave its medicine pill body mobility.

"Ready?" Suleiman asked, holding the tablet up and squinting towards the sensors in the distance.

Arrian slapped the drone, provoking a spasm from its insectoid legs. "When you are."

At Suleiman's control, the little drone dutifully marched out of the forest, into the open, and straight for the sensor posts, a robotic dog fetching at its master's command. It didn't have a chance at getting through undetected on its own, and while an overworked operator deep in the bowels of District 13 might blow off the disturbance as nothing more than another wayward squirrel or wild dog, that would prove nothing for Arrian and Suleiman.

The drone, however, was only part of their game. Arrian had taken care of the other part three years earlier, He hadn't been Arrian de Lange that day but "Garth Tanner," the assumed identity of a man whose body fish had certainly nibbled to the bone by now. Arrian had taken what he wanted from the District 13 computer network that day – passwords, information, medical data, juicy tidbits – but he'd also put something into it, something the likes of which these people hadn't seen, something the likes of which Arrian didn't understand.

It was another of those secrets Suleiman liked to keep close to chest. Arrian was content shrugging and going along with the plan.

When the drone was no more than twenty feet from the sensor fence, a hologram jumped up from Suleiman's tablet. It was a plain blue sphere, digital black hexagons patterning its surface. When Suleiman touched his finger to the hologram, it spun once, pulsed, and moved no more.

Arrian had the weirdest feeling it was looking at him.

Out in the clearing, the drone marched right on between the sensor poles. Suleiman glanced down at his tablet, ran a finger across its surface below the sphere, and smiled. "Nothing," he said. "Their system's silent. Didn't pick up even a whiff of it."

Arrian leaned back, in shock of how easily they'd circumvented District 13's security. How did it come so easily to his mentor? Criss-crossing the country, infiltrating District 4, venturing out to forbidden District 13 and infiltrating _that_, success after success. Arrian knew Suleiman commanded enormous resources and had influence in the Capitol, but those details were murky at best.

It was perplexing, but he had confidence in this man who had never let him down. More specifically, he had confidence in this man who'd done more for him than anyone back in the Capitol ever had. If that confidence came with a few unanswered questions, so be it.

**/ / / / /**

I wasn't going to keep the Capitol's spymaster waiting.

Come ten o'clock, I rubbed sleep from my eyes and tromped across the town square to the Hall of Justice. A warm breeze kept most of the dust off of the lifeless stone walls, leaving pockets of grime and sand built up in gutters and crags. I hated this old building. Elan had called Glenn and I's names for the Hunger Games here. I'd given a half-hearted speech at the end of the Victory Tour here. I'd listened to two more speeches here, one by a boy I detested, one by a girl I never even shook hands with. I'd watched six children called up here under my mentorship, all returning via simple pine coffins.

The Hall was built over a mountain of bodies and painted annually with a coat of blood.

Today, however, I couldn't worry about that. Lucrezia had said ten o'clock, and damn it, I was showing up at ten o'clock. Unlike Taurus, Cyrus, and most of the others in the Capitol, I had little notion of who she was outside of the Presidential Mansion and little notion of how she treated tardiness. _That's why she's the spymaster, Terra._

Ten o'clock. Late anyway. Lucrezia, or whatever fair-skin woman she posed as, picked over fruit at a vendor stall beside the Hall of Justice. She glanced my way as I strolled up, nodding to the vendor and handing over a fistful of talents in exchange for a bag of bright orange, oblong delicacies.

She smiled brightly as I walked up. "Terra!" chirped Lucrezia in a completely foreign voice. "Just was hoping to see you. Maybe we should talk a bit?"

Taken aback, I glanced around and shuffled. "I…okay?"

"Splendid!"

She took me by the hand and led me through the doors of the Hall of Justice. I shuddered in here.

As soon as the doors close, Lucrezia rounded on me. "Why don't you make it even more obvious you're uncomfortable?" she rebuked.

"Wh – what?" I said. So much for the alien friendliness.

"Subtlety lost on a victor," she sneered. "Who would have guessed? Where I can blend into the crowd, you make it glaring who you are the moment you step into the square."

"You told me to show up, not to conceal myself!"

"So a little independent thinking is beyond you? Even clearer why that wench who calls herself president values you. I expect your bedroom exploits could fill a novel. You know what novels are, yes?"

I gaped like a fish, unable to think of what to reply with. Finally, I stammered, "I – she – I didn't _sleep with the president_. You wanted me here!"

"Only because you're marginally more useful than those other two lowlifes who go by 'victor' in this wasteland," she said.

"Did you just ask me here to yell at me, or do you want something?"

She scowled. "We'll talk on the way. Come."

The hallways of the Justice Hall seemed so much more intimidating alongside Lucrezia. They were dark, shadowy, dusty, leering at me as this aggressive woman led me down the corridors. "We have nine months before the 100th Hunger Games. Nine months by which Taurus wants as much information as possible on this cult that calls this place home."

"We?"

"I'll oversee you. And one more. She'll join us momentarily."

_Oh Gods. _Forget a short-term assignment with Lucrezia. I was going to get to know her well.

"I bet that thrills you," I grumbled, shoving my hands in my pockets and trudging along behind her.

She stopped me in the hallway, her face contorted in a snarl. "Despite your rush to emotions and your lack of worldliness, you have enough wherewithal and charisma to work your way into the good graces of the small-minded. That's enough for me to work with. The zealously religious aren't known for their open minds and analytical attitudes."

"'Small-minded?'"

"The Odairs. Our current president. I believe that is enough."

_So much for subtlety_. The way Lucrezia casually mentioned her disdain for Calla shocked me – although I had the feeling that anyone who had spent a lot of time around Creon felt the same way about his hedonistic, party-going daughter.

Huh. Lucrezia and I had something in common. I didn't know what to make about the dig against Finnick and Drake, though.

I followed her down the halls again, head down: "So who am I – are we – seeing?"

"Xanthia var Saalas."

"Who?"

"A Capitol bureaucrat."

The curt way she said that made me think she wanted me to use my imagination and to put an _open mind and analytical attitude _to work. Alright then: _Xanthia_. Weird name. Capitol bureaucrat. Stuffy title. I envisioned some skinny, tall woman with frilly, bright, dyed hair standing behind her desk as if ruling some petty empire. Tattoos or body alterations maybe, skin dye at the least. Strange clothes. That weird Capitol accent that got higher with the more words spoken. Sounded about right.

Xanthia var Saalas's office wasn't very Capitolian. It was a Spartan thing, one plain oaken desk scattered with papers and a pair of computer displays and a simple rolling chair. A television screen on the wall showed boring Capitol news – typical talk about toxic radiation levels around District 13 from some news anchor in a containment suit, as if anyone by this point didn't know the place had been nuked into glowing ash during the Dark Days – presided over a pair of hard-backed visitor chairs facing the desk. The room was cramped and stuffy.

Surprisingly, Lucrezia didn't seem to mind. I would've thought someone from the Capitol would have balked at such conditions.

_Xanthia var Saalas_, read a bronze nameplate atop the desk. _Capitol liaison, District 5_.

"She spells it with an 'X'?" I scoffed. "Really?"

A husky, powerful voice out of nowhere said, "My parents were assholes who thought starting a first name with an 'X' made them all creative. I'd tell you to blame them, but they're both dead."

I spun around in my chair. So much for thin with body alterations. I had gotten tall right, at least: Xanthia was a brute. She was overweight, strange for a Capitolian considering how much the city's elite prided being as thin as a stick, but combined with her broad shoulders and short neck, it made her look like a mythical giant who had jumped right off of the page of old fairy tales. Her skin was a normal shade of dark brown, a hue darker than the rich tans District 5's sun gave rise to, and her hair was a normal, almost boring, dirty blonde. Even her bland yellow tunic was "normal" as far as Capitolians went.

"Is something – oh, not you," Xanthia said, squinting her beady eyes at Lucrezia and sighing. "I don't need your blue look to know who you are. I'd gotten word from a source you'd showed up here under a different look. Is Calla sending her attack dogs at me, or something? You want to dig something up?"

Lucrezia looked as if she's stepped in something foul. "Might I ask this source?"

"Fat chance."

"Keep your secrets, then. I'm not here for Calla. Or your history, although I gather it's full of disasters."

"Yeah, plenty of 'em, only some accidental" Xanthia snorted, taking a seat. "So if you're not here for Snow, you're here from either Cyrus Locke's or Taurus Sharpe's bidding. Cyrus leans to the impotent side, so I'd say the latter. And I guess Miss Victor here knows him too. So…this is some shitty motley crew to figure out what?"

I spoke up: "I was told –"

"To meet for coffee and pastries?" Xanthia interrupted me. "I must have missed the memo. Where are my manners?"

Well, at least I wouldn't be bored for the next nine months until the Games.

Lucrezia looked as if she'd stepped into a pile of dog leftovers. "I'm guessing even _you_ have kept track of what's growing in this district. Religious zealots cropping up. Ideology's more than enough for people to fight for, even for a doomed cause. But a doomed cause can inflict a lot of damage before it's finished off. I'd rather finish it off before it begins. Taurus and everyone else with a brain in the Capitol, too."

"So you're after this man Pyre York?" Xanthia said. "Heard about him. Evla, Orson, and the other Peacekeepers can't pin any crime on him, and arresting him will spark a riot. Smart guy. Except for the whole, 'The Flame judges,' and all that nonsense. Pretty ridiculous."

"Most of these people have basic education and no more, and their futures are as bleak as your wit," said Lucrezia. "Small wonder they cling to their faith, no matter how ridiculous."

"Can't argue with that," Xanthia said, nodding. "Nothin' against the religions of the districts, but when the same one gets into too many districts, there might be a bit of a problem. So why focus on District 5?"

"Wait," I said, cutting her off. "What do you mean 'too many districts'?"

Xanthia barked out a laugh. "Lucrezia, I thought you worked with this girl! Do you just lead her around on a leash or something?"

Lucrezia frowned and rolled her eyes. "The Church of the Triad stretches across Panem," she explained to me as Xanthia looked amused. "Six districts. 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 11, all have variants of the church."

"Based in part on some old world belief, from what I hear," Xanthia added. "There's your history and culture lesson for the day. Don't you go to school for that?"

"School ends before sixteen here," Lucrezia said.

"Oh, _excuse me_, spymaster, for not being up-to-date on public education."

"Wait," I interjected before they could go on bickering. "Taurus said he wants me to investigate these people and all. I already asked a friend if I could see Pyre -"

Lucrezia scoffed. "Very subtle. I might as well ask the Snows if District 7 can gain its independence."

"What a day when I agree with you," Xanthia said. "Bright idea asking to go see Head Zealot himself, Terra. Would you like to meet the runner-up to the 99th Hunger Games, too? I might be able to arrange something."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Play a part," Lucrezia hissed. "You've acted well as a victor. The Hunger Games audience thinks you're some shadowy, daring victor willing to do whatever it takes to win. We in the know understand that's far from the truth. So if you can pretend to be something you're not there, you can do the same here."

"She's saying to go to church," Xanthia added. "And pretend you believe in that rubbish."

I looked between Lucrezia and Xanthia. I had an idea where the former was going, but I still had no idea where this Capitol "bureaucrat" was pointing me towards. She'd broken enough ideas of what I thought a desk jockey from Panem's central city would be like. "Why are you in on this?" I asked Xanthia in a surge of boldness.

Lucrezia motioned to cut me off, but Xanthia held her back with a swipe of her arm. "Ha! Girl wants answers. First bright thing she's done all day. Fine, Terra. What do I want? I want a stable Panem. Just like Miss Royal Spymaster here, I see what's on top and what's on the bottom aren't very conducive to that. We have a bloody idiot for president and crazies like Pyre York running around the districts spreading their gospel. I can't do much about the former considering she has a formidable power base among the elite. I can sure do a lot about the latter, though. That satisfy your curiosity?"

Thoughts rushed past my mind. So many thoughts. Xanthia and Lucrezia, both of them had a bone to pick with Calla – and not just a small one, at that. More than that, despite their differences, they were in league with some grander ideal. I could tell from the way they spoke, the way they bantered. They weren't strangers. This wasn't a chance meeting. But…what? They weren't like Taurus, commanding me to go here and there, nor were they like Cyrus, advising me on a future that could be. No, something different filled this cramped room.

I couldn't satisfy my curiosity if I didn't play along. Time to go to church.


	59. Deception

_**+ Big thanks again for the consistent reviews, FoxfaceFan1! Really means a lot to know people are reading and liking the story. Critiques always appreciated! The newest chapter, in which I spend an inordinate amount of time on Lucrezia and Terra's relationship. And a short little jaunt through District 4, featuring our favorite crazy victor. And if you're careful, you might see a little Creon Snow peeping through Terra's thoughts.**_

**/ / / / /**

"I hope you're not planning to attend church looking like _that_."

Lucrezia stood in my front doorway, her arms folded, the shadowy morning light making her look dark and intimidating against the dusty backdrop of the Victor's Village. She didn't need her blue body paint to look recognizable, even though it was the first thing that came to mind when I thought of her. Even looking "normal," she still stood tall and haughty, and strangely, had a sort of seductive, aggressive air about her. It all made me want to shrink away into the depths of my house.

"What's wrong with my clothes?" I sniffed. It wasn't as if I wore anything out of the ordinary. Brown trousers, a white shirt, run-of-the-mill stuff for District 5.

She scoffed, "They make you look exactly like Terra Pike."

"Uh – I _am_ Terra Pike."

"Not today you're not. You're not going to church to worship some idols. Can you infer anything?" When I stared at her, mouth slightly agape, she sighed. "Fine. I'm to do all the work."

"What work? I thought you just wanted me to go to the church service this morning and listen to the preacher people?"

"Listen, yes. Broadcast to the entire district that their victor spontaneously has embraced eternal salvation, no. Come with me."

"Where?"

"Now. If you do it, you'll find out."

District 5 was already bustling as people took advantage of the cooler early morning hours, but most were too busy with errands or otherwise to notice their victor trudging along behind a woman from the Capitol – or a woman from the Capitol who looked like everyone else on the streets. I wondered what I'd say if I ran into Finch and she asked me about my company.

_Hi Finch! This is a condescending woman from the Capitol who usually looks much different! Don't mind. _

Fortunately, we didn't run into Finch. Maybe Lucrezia had planned it in advance, but we didn't run into anybody as she led me to a rickety wooden staircase behind one of the butcher shops surrounding the town square.

I was confused. "Are we buying a pig first?"

"We're not going shopping. Up the stairs."

Each wooden plank creaked with every step. I felt like I was about to see something horrible, some evidence of Lucrezia's work in action. Dead bodies? Some poor District 5 conspirator left hanging by his wrists over a fire? Some other punishment Lucrezia wanted to threaten me with?

Instead, I opened a splinter-covered wooden door to a bland, boring bedroom. Fading yellow paint peeled off of the walls like jaundiced skin retreating from old, brittle bones. A thin, dismal white rug covered the floor, curling on one side where it jammed against the wall. Ratty, brown woolen blankets covered a thin mattress that lay directly on the floor, no bed frame needed. On the far side of the room, a door ajar led into what looked like a depressing gray bathroom, dark and spotted with mildew here and there.

Maybe I would find a body here.

"What is this?" I asked, testing the floor with one foot and taking a deep sniff. It smelled like an old warehouse, like the storage rooms topside where the solar power workers kept tools and gear.

Lucrezia pushed me in and closed the door behind her. She flicked a switch, lighting up a lone bulb above that flickered and protested as it came to life. Sad white light crawled across the sorry bed and lonely rug. "My room."

"_Your _room?"

"Yes. Do I have to explain what a room is?"

"No, but – how'd you get it?"

"I rented it."

"What?"

"How do you think people get housing in other people's establishments? I made an offer to the butcher to pay him a certain amount each month. In return, he leased me the third floor here."

Whatever Lucrezia had said before, this easily was the most ludicrous thing I'd heard spill out of her mouth. "So you just…you went to the butcher, told him you work with the president, and asked to rent a room?"

Lucrezia scowled, as if preparing to lecture a student. "Of course not. Lucrezia Bierce isn't renting the room. Jessamine Saban is."

"Jessa-who?"

"Jessamine Saban. She is the widow of a gear operator on the dam who died tragically in a workplace accident. Now, she works as a personal assistant to a Peacekeeper commander named Seth. The same Peacekeeper, incidentally, who she'd been seeing intimately for years behind her late husband's back. She had a bastard daughter from him named Misty, who Jessamine had told the butcher would be coming by now and then to visit. Coincidentally, this Misty feels remorse for her upbringing and her mother's lustful tastes, enough remorse to push her to attend church after eighteen years of ignoring the faith."

It took a second to wrap my head around that. _But who the hell are these people_? _Why are they…oh_. Oh. Then it clicked. "Lucrezia" was never here. Nor Terra, for that matter.

I grimaced and said, "So…I'm playing someone named Misty?"

"Hm. A little bit of thought in that wasteland between your ears, I suppose."

"Okay, look. I get why you came up with some cover story. Capitol and all. Why me?"

"I explained this already," Lucrezia said, frowning again. "And you're not going to last long if you can't understand the power of deception. I thought it would have been obvious after becoming a victor and working with the Snows of all people. You are too well known by this district. Everyone knows your face. Every interaction you have is colored by what you did in the Hunger Games and what you do now in the Capitol. Fictional Misty Saban can be anyone and anything. Whatever's best suited to finding out all you can about these religious fundamentalists."

"But everyone's going to know I'm Terra the moment they see me."

"Wrong. Step into the bathroom."

Feeling confused, I backed my way into the dingy bathroom. "Dingy" summed it up well: The place had all the grandeur of an outhouse. Dirt caked a chipped metal sink, rust spreading out like bacterial cultures from the drain. A long fault line fractured a mirror diagonally from top to bottom. A desolate toilet filled with murky water was fit to host a family of roaches, and the bathtub likely hadn't been cleaned since the Dark Days.

I guessed Lucrezia had gotten this place cheap. I also guessed that butchers didn't make nearly as much as most merchants.

"Wonderful place, I grumbled, eying a mound of black boxes stacked against one wall.

Lucrezia snorted, "The butcher had plans to renovate. I convinced him otherwise and saved money."

"Yeah, if only you had a job that could afford a nice place," I sighed and rolled my eyes.

She opened one of the boxes and pulled out a small pair of globular containers, each no larger than the tip of my thumb. Frowning, Lucrezia looked back into the bedroom and said, "Take off your clothes."

"Uh, what?"

"You're not wearing that."

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing? If you're going to give me a makeover or something, these clothes look like everyone else's."

"They look like merchants' clothes. Misty Saban lives just outside Redhammer. Take off your clothes."

"No."

Before I could say another word, Lucrezia wheeled and slapped me. I recoiled from the hard hit, clapping my palm to my cheek as pain spread out across the side of my face. She hit a lot harder than I thought she could. _What the hells?_

Lucrezia grabbed my shoulder before I could say a word. She scowled and seethed, "You can help and listen to what I tell you, or you can go fester in your house until the summer rolls around. I'd prefer your help, but I don't need it if it comes to that. It's your decision."

Left unsaid was the key, _But I already know you'll comply_. Lucrezia didn't have to threaten me with violence. The game of intrigue she and the others played was too tempting to pass up, even if it meant a little humiliation. I figured it wouldn't be the last time I did something I didn't want to. Hells, I was good at doing things I didn't want to if the Hunger Games were any example.

Sulking, I pulled my top off as Lucrezia fetched things in the bedroom. I didn't know why nakedness still embarrassed me. I'd done it for my stylist Rhea, who had expressed a far worse…or stranger…attitude towards me than Lucrezia had so far.

"Don't strip," Lucrezia chided as I moved to remove my bra. "I don't need to check you for a fitting. I'm not one of your stylists. Just remove that unconvincing outer layer."

Well, then. Could've told me that beforehand.

I wrapped my arms around my bare waist as Lucrezia came in with a tattered, patched brown tunic and a pair of woolen trousers with a hole in one pant leg, right at knee height. She dropped something else in front of me, too, something I was far less comfortable putting on. It was a wig, a mane of curly, ratty, dirty blonde hair that could stretch down past my shoulder blades. I held it away from me, squeamish about wearing what looked like could have been peeled off of someone's head.

"Really?" I said, inspecting it like it was a hunk of rotting meat.

"Tie your hair up and pull it over your scalp," ordered Lucrezia, ignoring my squeamishness. "And put these in your eyes."

Oh, no. That was too much. She opened a small pair of thumb-sized plastic containers, each holding a clear fluid in which floated a transparent dome. I blanched. "You want me to what?"

"Your eyes are a vivid color. Memorable. It's much harder to recognize you with blonde hair and brown eyes."

"I…how…"

Lucrezia sighed, adding a touch more exasperation than necessary. "Has anyone ever taught you how to survive in the world? Place one on your index finger and pull your eye open. Finger to eye. That simple. How on earth did you ever make it through puberty, let alone the Hunger Games?"

Putting on ratty clothes was easy. Putting something _in my eye _was a lot more difficult. After a half-hour of struggling, Lucrezia snorted, "Assuming you even show up to the church in time for the noonday service, you should take some inspiration from your struggles. The Church of the Triad has something for eyes."

"What does that mean?" I gasped, rubbing my eyes for the hundredth time and plopping the contact lenses back in their solution. _Why is everything so difficult?_

"Taurus told you about the corpse found outside of Redhammer, I assume. That's why you're working with him."

"Yeah. So?"

"It wasn't a normal corpse when we found it. It was blackened, charred, a postmortem burning, considering the killers had opened up the chest and removed the Peacekeeper's heart. But first they'd removed his eyes. From the autopsy, he'd been alive. A hot, sharp instrument to gouge them out, according to the coroner's notes."

That did not help my current struggle. Leaning over the sink, I put my face in my hands and mumbled, "Why?"

"Mm. If you hurry up getting ready and go to church, maybe you can tell us. Assuming you don't blow your cover in of one outing."

In another fifteen minutes, I'd finally succeeded in sticking the contacts in my eyes and fitting the wig in my head. Exhausted, I slumped over in a chair as Lucrezia rubbed brown stuff across my face. "I don't know why you're making this so difficult," she berated me as she smeared gunk across my cheek. "Of course, you're coming from one of the more privileged districts."

"You're coming from the Capitol."

She said nothing as she finished her work. I looked, in a word, alien. The girl who stared back at me through the veil of the dirty mirror wasn't Terra Pike in any way. She looked disheveled, beaten down. Secretly, I wondered if Lucrezia hadn't wanted to make my disguise difficult, as the red around my eyes made me look even more downbeat.

"Very well. Get up," ordered Lucrezia.

I sniffed, still inspecting myself in the mirror. Lucrezia pulled my hand away when I tried to straighten my fake hair and smooth out creases in my clothes. "How do I get these things out of my eyes?" I asked.

She scoffed, "Worry about that later. Worry about two things now. You have ten minutes to get to the church. When you get there, listen. Watch. Observe. And if you get the chance, connect with someone there. More than anything, you have to look like someone searching for faith, not for suspects."

Clear enough.

The crowds had died down on the streets by the time the sun rose high into the sky, but the central church downtown was as packed as always. Under the watching eye of the dam and the towering canyon walls, the faithful not at work or otherwise indisposed took advantage of the noonday heat to find shelter in one of the largest buildings in District 5. The bronze church bell clanged back and forth in the belltower high above, a spire that looked over the entire merchant quarter. The church's façade, a wall of sandstone bricks unflinching and unbreaking, met the parishioners. I felt small as I walked through a pair of two story high wooden doors, and the gaping expanse of the interior didn't help.

A pair of wooden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, at least two dozen candles situated on each, wax dripping into rusting metal holders. Not as if the church needed the light: Giant windows, scrubbed clean and glistening, let in enough sunlight that we may as well have sat outside. Given all the emphasis on light, I was surprised that the air was cool in here. The church had to have a good deal of money to afford cooling fans for a building this size.

Idols and frescos large and small lined the walls. Here, the wood carving of a bearded man, his cloak open and flowing in an invisible wind, his arms opened wide, rays bursting from his palm. There, a woman with a shield and spear, holding the line against some unforeseen enemy. And everywhere, a cloaked man – or woman, who could tell? – his hood curled over his eyes, a flaming torch in one hand, a pair of scales in the other. At the front of the great room, a red-tinted window bathed scarlet sunlight over a wooden altar. Candles burned atop it, each situated between the three idols. Giant skylights above cast light down from the sky. I had to narrow my eyes from the brightness of the church, causing me to tear up again from the damn contacts. _Ugh_.

_Listen. Observe. Connect_. Right. I reminded myself of what I was supposed to do and looked around. If there was some sort of assigned seating, it didn't look like it. Church-goers piled into the wooden pews here and there, in groups and alone. I moved towards the back of the room, still unsure of what to expect, when someone sitting by himself in a far corner stopped my cold.

He bowed his head and slumped his shoulders, but there was no mistaking my mentor. No one sat in front of Daud. No one sat beside him. Alone, he shut his eyes and waited, hands folded in his lap. Guilt – guilt? – washed over me. I wanted to push people aside and take a seat next to him. I knew why he came here and the things he did more than anyone else in the building. If anyone deserved a little support, it was him – and his fellow church-goers certainly didn't seem to provide it. He was as much of a pariah in here as he was out on the streets.

So much for fellowship. _Hypocrites._

But as much as I wanted to take a seat next to him, I stopped myself. I wasn't here to comfort people. I wasn't even here to help people, and thinking that way might lead to all sorts of unintended consequences that could snowball in a hurry.

I ignored Daud like everyone else, as much as it pained me to do so, but Lucrezia _had _told me to connect to people. I was loathe to strike up a conversation with any of these strangers out of the blue. Instead, I spotted someone else I knew filing in – someone who I might just be able to win over as "Misty Saban," someone who I already knew how to talk to and how to befriend. I'd been doing it every day at work for three years. Maybe luck did turn my way sometimes.

I shuffled through the crowd, pushing my way into a pew and taking a seat next to Blaze.

Perking up as I approached, I asked, lowering my voice to not sound like myself, "Is anyone sitting here?"

Blaze looked at me – or at "Misty," I supposed, or whatever the heck I was in here - as if I'd asked about something crazy. "Uh…no."

Good enough. I plopped down next to him, fingering a lock of my "hair" as I waited for something to happen next. Gods, curly hair felt weird. As I waited, I fought off a dissonance in my head. Lucrezia set me up as some family-challenged girl searching for her place in the world. So be it – but how was I supposed to be extroverted and approachable if I needed to look weepy and conflicted at the same time?

I glanced up at Blaze, who was busy staring over at a wall. Well, drama could always work with him.

Suddenly I was thankful for the contacts, as squinting my eyes made them tear up again out of irritation. I leaned over, planting my elbows on my knees and pressing my palms to my face, pretending to be lost in despair. _Is this what conflicted people do at church?_

I peeked between my fingers here and there. Blaze had noticed me, at least, as he frowned and cast a look my way from time to time. After a few minutes, he coughed and said, "Are you…do you need help?"

In any other situation, I would have laughed. I stifled the urge and shook my head instead, mumbling, "Sorry. I'll try to stop."

He folded his arms and leaned back. "Do whatever."

"Sorry," I apologized again, doing my best to weigh on his conscience. "I know I'm bothering you. I don't even know you."

Blaze looked annoyed, glancing around at other churchgoers as the last stragglers filed in and found seats. But I knew he wasn't a bad guy. A bit abrasive, sure, but not a bad person. A girl in distress would break down his walls. He'd suggested that I go to church, after all.

Finally, he cracked; "Look, we're waiting anyway. Is there…what's up?"

I rubbed at my eyes and looked away. "I don't want to bother you."

"Jeez, girl, I'd be an ass if I told you to piss off."

I over-emphasized a sniffle and said, "It's my mom."

"Uh-huh."

"She pushes me away and looks sick all the time, and she keeps…she sees these men…oh, I'm sorry. You probably don't want to hear this. I won't burden you."

I looked away, daring him into the next move. He could go along with what I said and ignore me, but how many young guys in this situation – with a girl crying her eyes out right next to them – would do that?

Blaze rubbed his chin and said, "I, uh – look, what's your name?"

"Misty."

"Cool. I'm Blaze. Why don't you…why don't you sit up, for starters? We're gonna get started soon here."

I sniffed, nodded, and said, "Okay. I just…I don't want to bother you."

"Gods, you're gonna bother me if you keep saying that."

I said nothing, merely nodding and staring at my lap. I glanced over as he looked at me, his face showing his resolve buckling. For a moment, a horrible feeling shot through me. I knew exactly what I was doing: I was using one of my only friends in District 5 to further my agenda – no, not my agenda, _Lucrezia_'_s_ agenda. Weaving Blaze around my finger took a few tears and sniffles, not much more.

But, dammit, he had no idea how high my stakes were. For Blaze, church and the solar power fields were the highlight of life. I had bigger matters to attend to. Winning Taurus's and Lucrezia's favors might mean getting a tribute out alive. It might mean sparing that victor the troubles of dealing with Calla's requests and all the stress that came from the Capitol's political game. I was willing to toy with one boy's emotions for all that.

I'd worked through the death of a president. What he had worked through?

"Thanks," I murmured.

"Hm?"

"Nobody's been willing to listen to me recently. At least you didn't tell me to screw off."

He paused, finding the right words to reply with. "Well…to both hells with those people. They sound like asses."

I nodded and forced a smile as a man I'd seen only once walked in through a side door. Pyre York, the man who'd wanted a message three years ago. What had he been up to since then?

Glancing over at Blaze, I hesitated and stopped short of saying anything more. This would be a process. Misty wouldn't win over my friend in one outing. I'd need to keep coming back here, try a little more each time. However it went, I knew I had an in: Whether or not I got to know Pyre or any other heads of this faith, I knew Blaze. Now, the girl I pretended to be knew him, too.

Pyre walked up to the altar, looked out over the pews, and coughed. For a moment, I thought he looked right at me.

"Brothers," he said. "Sisters. Sons, daughters, fathers, mothers. Today I want to ask each of you a question: Who do we turn to in our loneliest hours? Our family? The ones we are born to, not of choice, but of chance? Our friends, the ones we choose but never truly know? Our associates, co-workers, victims of circumstance?"

He shook his head. "No. We are all sinners. All men and women, children even, each of us flawed. Backstabbers. Thieves. Cheats. Our sins are endless. Through our waking hours in this world, we can place our full faith only in those higher than us. The Light guides us. The Moon protects us with her shield, her spear. The Flame shall judge us and weigh our crimes when we exit this world. Who are we to place our worth, our confidence, in the material essence of this world, when so much more awaits us?"

I bristled at his words. _Who was Pyre York to know what horrible things happened in this world?_

"I say this," Pyre went on, waving a hand over the crowd. "not out of judgment, but of observation. Even here, some of us are guilty of blindly internalizing the words of those we think our superiors, and labeling that our gospel. This is a crime in the eyes of our Lords. There is only one word, and that is the word of the Light. The word that the Moon protects, the word the Flame wars over. The word the Dark fights to usurp. Most insidiously, the word the Shadow seeks to corrupt, to poison. Seek out the deceivers amongst you. They are the black ones who would turn you from holiness, the ones who would corrupt you into following the footsteps of a fallen race. For that is what we are – can you not see it? Do we not witness the sins of forsaken overlords, those who would abandon our poorest and weakest, those who would cast our children every year to certain death, those who would mock our poor, our destitute? When you see your brothers, your sisters, do you spit upon them? The fallen would."

Next to me, Blaze clasped his hands and nodded. I gritted my teeth. For all his charisma and faith, Pyre was no different than so many others I'd seen in the Capitol. He was a merchant of hope and dreams. In that instant, I saw why Lucrezia, Xanthia, and Taurus hated this faith so much. Hidden in Pyre's speech was a populist rant against the Capitol, against any sort of law and order outside of the faith. For as much as he railed against deceivers, what was Pyre doing in front of that altar? How different was he from me, Terra, Misty, whatever I was?

I glanced up at Blaze as my friend listened in to those sweet, persuasive words. Pyre wasn't interested in saving anyone from whatever religious damnation he believed in. I wouldn't let his agenda evade my gaze.

**/ / / / /**

A knock on the door jolted Annie Odair from her nap.

Instantly, she clapped her hands over her ears to drown out the din. _Don't let it in. Don't let it in_. Finnick wasn't here to tell her it would be okay. Why wasn't he here? Taking a deep breath in, Annie steadied herself. Finnick was in the Capitol for the week. He had to take care of things. She had to take care of their house. She'd be okay, he'd said. She'd be okay.

Hesitating, Annie got off of their couch and inched towards their front door. The wooden floorboards creaked under her feet. For a house in the Victor's Village in District 4, the Odair household had always seemed…old. Antiquated, like something drawn up from the past. Maybe it was the dark oaken floorboards, so different from the driftwood floor that had covered Annie's home back when…back when. Maybe it was the spaciousness of the living room, the lonely furniture, the walls too wide for a single person. Her son was upstairs, caught up in whatever he did. Annie was too frightened to find out. Ever since Finnick had told her that the Capitol had enlisted Drake in those…_things_…that he did, Annie had been afraid of long talks with her son. She was afraid of what she'd learn, afraid of the things she couldn't change.

Helpless. That was what she was. Helpless to help her best friend, her lover. Helpless to help her son, her only child who looked so much like Finnick. Helpless to help her district partner thirty years ago, his head severed from its shoulders, rolling along the ground like a melon…

Annie clamped her hands tighter over her ears.

She couldn't hear the sounds of District 4 from the Victor's Village, anyway. The gulls, sure, but no more. Not the sounds of the boats, the oil motors, the rumbling like the engine from the one that her mother had worked on when she was a little girl, the one that had exploded at sea and taken her beautiful mother to the bottom. Not the grinding and coughing of the cannery like the one her father had worked in after her mother's death, the toil working him to the bone until he died not three years after she'd become a victor.

Annie didn't want to open the front door. Terrible things lurked out there.

Forcing herself to step forward, Annie reminded herself of what Finnick had said so many times. _One more step. You've done so much, Annie. Be brave for me_. _For us both_. He'd said that the day her father had died, the day she'd given birth to Drake, the day she'd watched Drake Reaped for the 95th Hunger Games. So many horrors. What lurked outside the door this time?

With knots tangled in her gut like the links in the rope Finnick twisted over and over again in his quiet hours, Annie opened the door. No Peacekeeper stood there to meet her, no harbinger of doom – at least of that sort. Instead, a pretty, smiling familiar face said hello.

"Annie!" Brooke Larson said with a bright smile. "It's so good to see you! We don't see each other enough."

Annie held her hands to her chest and took a step back. "You shouldn't be here," she whispered.

Brooke laughed it off with a wave of her hand. "C'mon, Annie. Finnick mentored me. We've know each other a while."

"They're looking for you."

"Oh, I know. Don't worry about that."

"They say you're bad."

Brooke bit her lip, the corners of her mouth turning up as she slumped her shoulders. "Annie, it's me! Do you know how many times I've talked with Finnick? When we've shot the breeze over the Games, the Capitol, things we wished could be better? You're just as much family to me as he is. All of you. Is Drake home?"

Instinctively, Annie closed the door halfway and narrowed her eyes. The predatory woman had mentioned her son. She was dangerous. The Peacekeepers, the ones Annie feared but tried to avoid, had searched this woman's empty house. Would they come here now?"

"He's not here," Annie said after a long pause. "He won't be here."

"I just want what's best for him. He only won a few years ago. I'm our most recent victor before him. Can't I just talk to Drake?"

"No."

Drake came down the stairs just then. He spotted Brooke, his eyes questioning as he approached the door. "Something up?"

Annie's heart fell. She bit her lip and clutched her son's shoulder as Brooke said, "Hey, Drake. Got a minute? Been a while since we talked."

"No," Annie murmured, holding onto Drake with both hands now. The woman wanted something. She was dangerous. Finnick had said so too, not just the Peacekeeper men in white who posted notices.

Drake exhaled and put his hands on her shoulders. "Mom, it's fine," he said. "I'm just gonna talk."

She wanted to say something warn him of the things Brooke could say, but the words didn't come to her. Defeated, Annie let go, backing away as her son glanced at her and spoke to the woman at the door. The dangerous woman. The schemer.

She was letting Finnick down. She wasn't a good mother. What if the scheming woman got into her son's head? Annie turned away, retreated into the living room, and wiped a tear away.


	60. Mistakes

_**+ Huge thanks for hitting one hundred reviews, everyone! Never even imagined I'd hit that for this story. So happy for everyone following along and enjoying the story, and big things on the way for it soon! Good, considering it's now 200k+ words in. In this chapter, intrigue, philosophy, old colleagues reuniting, family squabbles, and saying hello to a major new face. Was two chapters, but they were sort of light on meat, so I turned 'em into one long mega-chapter.**_

**/ / / / /**

"So you go to one jam-packed church service, listen to someone spout some lines, you know everything about a man? Excellent ingenuity, Terra, how did I not think of this earlier? I'm going to announce to a crowd tomorrow that I'm the empress of Panem. I hope your bowing skills are up to par. Someone has to kiss my feet, after all."

I scowled, folded my arms, and slumped back in my seat at Xanthia's sarcasm. "You told me to go there. Lucrezia told me to watch. So I watched."

"She and I didn't tell you to gobble up Pyre's spiel like gospel," Xanthia snorted. "Next you're going to tell me I'm doomed for one of the two hells because I don't make offerings to the sun god, or whatever they talk about."

"I'm not gobbling anything! Pyre talked – preached, whatever – about stuff that would make people suspicious of each other. It was…radical, I guess. Paranoid kind of stuff. Like, on the lines of ratting your neighbor out because they're not faithful enough."

"Oh, wow, anything else? Is Pyre a man, perhaps? Did you find out what color his hair is?"

Her little quips angered me. Xanthia wasn't doing any of the work. She was little more than a bureaucrat behind a desk. I was the one pretending to be someone else, walking into an intimidating place, and putting my skin on the line.

"It's not that I think you're terrible at this, although I don't have enough data to back that up," Xanthia went on. "It's just that charging into the church and thinking the first thing you hear out of Pyre York's mouth is the answer isn't really the best way to go about things. Everyone already knows who the man is in public. We want to know what he says behind closed doors."

Annoyed, I said, "Why d'you even care? You're a…you sit at a desk and write stuff."

"You think I'm fine letting crazies run around unattended?"

"What?"

"These cultists. Religious fundamentalists. They're like chickens with their heads cut off. So eager to find some meaning of why they work and live and die in this backwater dustbin that they grab onto whatever someone with an air of authority says, as long as it makes them look good. Don't like your life? Well, good news for you, it'll get better in the afterlife – and those schmucks you don't like are in for it! All you have to do is kill a few of them and pay up. That's a lot nicer than the authorities who tell you to sacrifice your kids for the Hunger Games, right? Soon you don't just want better in the afterlife, you want better _now_. So to appeal even more to the shit you believe in, you go all-out and kill not only the bad guys, but the good guys who aren't good enough. It starts with an innocent faith, but all it takes is one ambitious man leading everyone down the path he wants and everything goes to hell. This is how war crimes happened in the Dark Days, Terra, on both sides. Wasn't religion that did it then, but ideology is ideology. Zealots are good at wearing different clothes. You want to go back to that? Be my guest. Everyone dies and the ones who don't die sure don't end up with happy endings. You in?"

"Fine, I get it," I muttered.

"Kind of obvious. So who'd you actually meet, then? You went undercover. You won't learn anything about Pyre unless people tell you things and trust you enough to tell you more. Eventually, that works up to the head preacher himself. So who'd you meet?"

I clutched my shoulders and looked at my lap. "Well, my mentor was there."

Xanthia snorted. "Daud Mosely's brain could fit into a thimble. He's about as useful at giving us clues on how to dig up zealots as I am at solving District 11's poverty problem. Is that it? Anyone with an actual touch of social awareness?"

"Yeah. A little. A friend of mine. Blaze. I talked to him while I was there. I met Pyre through him a couple years ago, once, but that –"

"Why didn't you say that in the first place?" said Xanthia, rolling her eyes.

"I don't want to hurt him."

"So, you're happy letting him get caught up in a cult that preaches all sorts of doom awaiting nonbelievers, which would include you in that category, but you don't want to use him to help dilute this cult before it gets really nasty? Strange sense of morality you have going on."

"Here's what you do," Xanthia went on as I huddled in my chair. "You limit seeing him undercover to the church for now. Build that up to more frequently little by little. For talking with him as your normal self, limit that. Try to keep one foot in both lives and you'll mix them up over time. If you want to play this little game, you don't get to shy away from opportunities just because you might jeopardize a friendship."

"Bet that's really hard for you to decide," I snarked.

"Oh, a teenager insulting me. I'd better go jump off a high cliff. My self-esteem might be shattered. Go run off to that dust bowl you call the Victor's Village and think on it. If you're caught up on whoever you call friends around here, you'll be spending a lot of time there for the rest of your life."

That'd been two days ago. Now I knelt over a solar panel with the noonday sun cranking up the desert furnace. Blue wire to second port, light green wire to first port. It felt good to do something simple with my hands, working on something where there was a right way and a wrong way to go about finding a solution. No subtleties, no discretions and lies. Just machinery and technology that worked exactly like you told it to. If I'd never gone into the Hunger Games and never seen what lay beyond District 5 and the power plants, I could have been content doing this for my life. Now the floodgates were open, the dam breached. I couldn't go back to this forever knowing the things I did.

Blaze stood nearby, checking over another group of power cells with a few other of our co-workers. I'd barely spoken to him at all since seeing him in the pews. He'd barely noticed, for whatever reason, but I wanted to shake off this dumb act. _Can I ask you about something? _I imagined myself saying to him. _Something I heard the other day. And someone I saw_.

I left it in my imagination. No matter how much my heart wanted me to make an obscene gesture to Lucrezia and Xanthia and go back to cultivating one of the only friendships I'd ever made here in District 5, it paled against my ravenous interest in Pyre York's plans and what they meant to the Capitol. If I threw away my progress now, the hunger would crop up again in less than a week – and then I wouldn't have a chance to satiate it.

A cloud of dust, the stench of exhaust, and the squeal of brakes announced the arrival of an old, four-wheeled all-terrain vehicle. Olive paint flaked off of its hood and doors, and rust rimmed the iron bars of its roll cage that hung over a two-by-two set of hard-backed seats. The jeep bounced on oversized black tires as it came to a halt, the three gray crates on its rear bed sliding around at the sudden stop. A Peacekeeper hopped out of the driver's seat, clutching his helmet under his arm, the sand and dust turning his armor a shade of musty red-brown. He was a well-built man with a doughy face, the kind that made him look ten years too young for his graying, thinning hair and forehead creases.

He pointed at me and said, "Got a visitor. C'mon."

I shot a look Blaze's direction, wiped off my pants, and stood up. "Way to be play favorites, Orson," Blaze laughed.

"I'm not paying her. Of course she's my favorite," the Peacekeeper said with a shrug.

"Can I get off early, too?"

"Am I paying you?"

Blaze grinned, but I ignored him and looked away. _Don't mix your identities_. Gods, it was hard to internalize that.

Orson revved up the jeep and drove us out across the flats, dust kicking up behind the tires. Far off in the distance, a sandstorm migrated across the desert, engulfing a rocky butte and swarming across the top of the canyon miles in the distance. A lone vulture soared overhead on the warm noonday thermals, searching for carrion drying in the heat.

"Who's visiting?" I asked as the jump bounced and rocked over the bumpy terrain.

Orson shrugged and jerked the jeep to the right, dodging a jackrabbit springing across the cracked earth. I imagined a lot of other Peacekeepers would've just run over the animal. "Didn't say his name," said my supervisor. "Flashed a fancy-looking badge that checked out and said he was looking for you. I didn't feel like arguing, if you get me."

"Fine. What's he look like, then?"

"Thinking when of your Capitol friends is showing up? I admit, replacing you would be a pain. No one else wants to work for free, so I might have to hire someone sane to do your job if you run off with some Capitol guy. You victors can do that, right?"

"Not with any Capitol guy I know."

Orson frowned and looked out at the building sandstorm. "Tall guy. Pretty powerful-looking for a Capitolian. Weird bright yellow hair and almost white eyes. Kinda freaky appearance, really, like he was staring into you, almost. I dunno. You can talk him."

Yellow hair, white eyes. Didn't sound like anyone I knew. Then again, if my time with Lucrezia and Xanthia had taught me anything so far, it was that looks didn't tell the whole story.

The Capitolian man loitered near one of our gear sheds when Orson and I drove back to the canyon lip. A pair of Peacekeepers stood nearby, their rifles slung over their shoulders as the idled in conversation. I sure didn't recognize him, and whoever he was, he didn't seem the type to indulge in the Capitol's fads. He'd done well to blend in, wearing a simple brown overcoat and gray trousers, but he couldn't hide that garish, lemon hair. The eyes were just as strange as Orson had described them, as if I looked into pupils set in vacant white globes.

"Could we get somewhere private?" the man rumbled as I hopped out of the jeep.

Orson looked around and shrugged. "Best shot at that's getting down to the floor level. Couple sheds around I could clear out, I guess."

The Capitolian thought better of it, waved him off, and said, "How about that? Mind if I borrow your jeep?"

"You…" Orson started to protest. He looked at the man, glanced back at me, and thought better of it. He was a simple Peacekeeper sergeant, far below a Capitol man in any pecking order. "Yeah. Sure. You know how to drive that?"

"Of course. I have my own hovercraft, too," the Capitolian said with a grin. "Ms. Pike. Let's go for a ride."

Hesitant, I stepped back into the passenger seat as the man slid next to me. He took up a lot of space in here even though he was trim, athletic even. The car lurched to a start, and he spared no time gunning the engine, clearing a good deal of distance between us and the canyon lip until Orson and the other Peacekeepers disappeared behind a series of rocky mounts.

"Far enough for a little privacy," he said, stopping the keep and peering out at the horizon. "Storm's coming."

"Maybe we should hurry up, then," I suggested. The man made me uncomfortable: Taking the Peacekeeper jeep just to shuttle me out into the middle of nowhere for a chat? Most Capitolians would've been happy for the attention. "I don't think we've ever met."

He snorted. "Of course we've met. It's been some time. A little over two years, actually. I'm sorry that I haven't been able to see you since then – a lot of other things have taken up my time. Important things. I hear you've been involved in important things too, so maybe it's for the best. This is good timing, anyway."

I racked my brain. _A little over two years_…the 97th Games? Was he a sponsor, looking for some exclusive deal before the Quarter Quell? The 100th Hunger Games were a big event, so maybe that was it. Something else? An entertainer, maybe, that I'd met in passing at one of those big galas Finch and I had stopped by?

"Why's it good timing?" I asked, kicking a rock and staring at the ground.

"Look what's coming up," he said. "The 100th Games. The fourth Quarter Quell. Whatever you want to call it. A momentous occasion."

_Sponsor for sure_. I scowled and stared off into the distance, hoping he'd get his spiel over with soon. The man sighed and pulled out a small, silver disc from his pocket. "Nothing better to celebrate Panem's history with than the Hunger Games."

"Sure," I said, shrugging. "History's good."

"It's a catalogue of mindless violence and navel-gazing, wrapped in a shell of arbitrary whims of authority and morality. Perfect for the Hunger Games."

I stopped. Those weren't the words of a Capitolian. They weren't words anyone would say in Panem territory, even.

"I'm sorry," I said, taking a step towards the jeep. "I really don't know you. Really."

"Maybe you're choosing to forget that time, as if that's the only way to satisfy your conscience," the Capitolian said.

He stared down at the disc, and his face…_shifted_. Little by little, the well-tanned man with the yellow hair and white eyes broke off, spilling into little black dots that collected on the disc like a puzzle coming apart. After just a few seconds, the Capitolian man no longer stood there.

In his place stood Suleiman.

Everything boiled up in me all at once. The events of the 97th Hunger Games, Creon's death, the numbness of losing in the Games each year since, Calla's rule, all of it. I half-snarled, half-screamed, and threw a punch.

He dodged it with little more than a flinch. "That's no way to treat an old colleague."

"You're a murderer!" I snarled, balling my fists.

"You're that angry that I killed a few Peacekeepers back when we first met? They would have found you in that warehouse in Auburn's Belly. I expect that would have been an awkward interrogation."

"Not them! I know you killed him! You killed Creon. I know you did. That's why you wanted to go with me that night to Calla's place. That's where the bomb went off. You did it."

Suleiman laughed. He laughed, but he didn't smile, his face still stoic and still as he chuckled, "You think I killed the president?"

"Yeah."

"Your investigative skills need work. I didn't kill him. Nor did Arrian. I don't care who holds the presidency. It might matter to you and Taurus Sharpe and Cyrus Locke and everyone else who dances around the Presidential Mansion, but it doesn't matter to me. One Snow is the next Snow, regardless of their ruling philosophies. Ignorance. Solipsism. Progress aborted before it has the chance to take its first breath. Do you think a change in ruler would alter that? Especially handing off leadership to someone as shallow as Calla Snow?"

His words had a power and strength behind them, a subtle storm at first that snowballed in power with every sentence. Suleiman didn't have to raise his voice. His calm, passive cynicism was enough. "Bullshit," I cried, verbally lashing out to defend myself against the onslaught. "Whatever game you play, you and Arrian, you want things. Arrian offered to save my tributes that year if I did things for him. You want something too."

"Of course I want something," he said, smirking. "Everyone wants something. But maybe I don't want to tell you. Or maybe you should stop assuming what people want just because they tell you something, or just because they don't disagree with your assumptions."

He bent down, picked up a foot-sized rock, and turned it over in his hands. "What I want to know is why a victor's so keen on helping the very people who make life difficult in the districts."

I gaped, unsure of how to respond. "What?"

"Do you think Lucrezia Bierce's biggest priority is stamping out a cult?"

"What're you talking about?"

"You tell me. You're the one playing junior detective. First for Creon, now for Lucrezia. Struck out the first time."

"I don't know how you heard about this –"

"Please."

"-but Taurus made me do it. He told me to look into these things, and Lucrezia barged in. I'm not trying to move to the Capitol and become buddies with everyone."

"Of course you are, Terra. That's exactly what you want. I'm not omniscient; I don't know if Taurus told you to or not. But I know you're too happy to go along with it. The mystery provokes you. It's more exciting than sitting in a dark house in the Victor's Village. Finch and Daud's lives disgust you, don't they? Living as marked people for eleven months out of the year, isolated, out of the loop, uninformed, their only respite to become pawns for one month out of every twelve."

"I do not –"

"That's why you spend your time working when you don't have to. It distracts from the horror that is monotony. More importantly, that's why you're so happy to work with the likes of Taurus and Creon and Lucrezia. Few victors practice court intrigue."

"So what do you want, then? If you don't like me so much, why bother me?"

Suleiman tossed the rock out into the desert, the stone landing with a soft _piff_ in the sand. It didn't bounce once, merely settling in to the exact place his throw had sent it. "Arrian's offer still stands."

"No," I said immediately. As much as the thought had once tempted me, the lurking danger that Arrian – and now Suleiman – would ask a price far, far more damning stayed my hand.

"One job for one tribute. It's a fairer deal than you'll get anywhere else in Panem. It's not like you're the first victor I've ever approached with an offer. One even took me up years ago, and she's doing better than ever."

"Forget it."

He shrugged. "This year's the Quell. You might not say 'no' for long."

Suleiman stepped back into his jeep, but when I tried to follow, he closed the passenger-side door. "Take a long walk back. Think on things. The desert air's dry and good for moments of solitude."

"Oh," he added as the vehicle's ignition rumbled. "Your newest victor's stopping by in a few days on his tour. Do me a favor and have a nice conversation with him. Expand your worldview and you might start to question things. Until this year's Games, Terra. I'll see you in the Capitol then."

**/ / / / /**

"Do you ever think you were born a bad person?"

_Thunk!_ A dart implanted into Daud's kitchen wall, quivering in the middle of a crude, hand-drawn, charcoal circle. Daud admired his shot, took a drink, and said, "Done plenty of bad things."

"That's not what I'm asking, I said, frowning and crossing my legs as my mentor lined up another dart. "Do you think that…just…that some people are made to do bad things?"

"Why ask that?" _Thunk!_

I shrugged. I certainly wasn't going to tell him the reason behind my question.

After a long pause and another drink, he leaned back, belched, and said, "Nah. I don't think I was born bad."

"Sometimes I think I was," I mumbled, slouching down, leaning my arms across his kitchen table, and resting my chin on them.

Daud was quiet, swishing his drink, eying its milky white sloshing, waiting for me to go on. Staring off into the distance, I said, "Sometimes I don't know why I do things."

He fretted and said, "Do things need a why?"

"Some things, yeah. Important things."

"I don't think so. Things happen. The why gets settled later. Good things with bad justification are still good things."

I watched him pitch another dart at the wall. There wasn't any residue of a white lie on his face, no graying of doubt in his eyes. Daud had this…this contentment that I envied, despite the person he was and all the people who scoffed at him. He could live with cutting down doomed avoxes for sponsorships.

"It never gets to you?" I asked. "Anything you do?"

He took a drink. "Nah. Only the things I don't."

"The…the people you kill, that never bothers you?"

"Nah. Why would it?"

"I mean, they're people."

"I'd rather die than live like that. At least they can die for a good cause that way."

I stewed on my next question, debating how to phrase it. "Let's say all that does get a tribute out –"

"It did."

"Forget me. Let's say someone else. It just means that some other tribute from some other district who could've won didn't."

"That's your problem," Daud said, waving his glass at me and spilling a wave of wine over the lip. "You keep getting caught up that one life equals another with no difference. That ain't so."

"Why not? They're both, well, lives."

"Because one means something to you and one doesn't."

"Well, that doesn't matter. I could say that for anyone else."

"Except you and I aren't anyone else. You don't live everyone's lives."

I sat back in my chair. The spilled wine dripped off the table bit by bit, _drip, drip, drip_, pooling in a pale embolism within a narrow crack on the floor. It was getting harder to keep everything inside of me. Bit by bit, _drip, drip, drip_, questions and admissions popped out of my skin.

"If you could guarantee to get someone out of the arena," I said, "would you do it if you had to kill a thousand people?"

"That's damn ridiculous. Where's this even comin' from?"

"Pretend."

Daud swirled his wine in his cup again. L was catching on that he did that every time thoughts whirled around in his head. "Do I know these thousand people?"

"Probably not."

"Alright. Sure. I'll kill 'em."

I pawed at a dart on the table, poking my index finger against its needle tip. "I don't think I could."

"That's never something you're gonna do anyway."

"Yeah, but what if I have to decide on something similar?"

"You won't. Stop talking about this. You're getting all caught up in your head. That's the fastest way to go crazy."

I turned the dart over in my hand. Dusk had already settled in. This wasn't a conversation I should've been having: Earlier in the day, District 12's new victor, Roan Hawthorne, had given his speech in the town square. Officials were showing him around the district on various tours now, but in two hours I'd have to be at the Justice Hall, putting on my best smile and meeting him for the first time. I still didn't know anything about him – his speech had been run-of-the-mill, reading-off-a-card stuff – and the weight of Suleiman's accusations and Daud's philosophy was not something I needed pressing on me.

Idling, I chucked my dart at the wall. It missed the wall entirely, flying off down the hall and clattering against the floor.

"Awful throw," Daud scoffed. "Who taught you to throw darts?"

"No one," I mumbled, leaning over on the table again and laying my head down. I didn't feel good.

Daud set his drink down and pushed his chair back. "Get up. Pick up that dart and try aiming this time."

I grumbled and played along. When I moved to chuck again, however, Daud held my arm back before I could throw. "Using too much of your shoulder, girl," he said. "You're not killing the wall. You're trying to hit the middle of the circle. Here."

He pulled my forearm back to ninety degrees and held my shoulder steady. "Straighten your arm in one go and use your wrist to fine-tune your aim. It's a dart, not a javelin."

I bit my lip and threw. _Thunk!_ The dart slammed into the wall just outside of the charcoal circle, a far cry from my mentor's precise bullseyes, but better than the last time. "At least you hit the wall," Daud said, satisfied.

I smiled just as his front door slammed open. Finch barged into the room, a flowing scarlet dress swishing around her, a grin plastered on her face that fluttered away the moment she saw us. "What are you two doing?" she asked, her tone taking on authority with every word. "We've got ninety minutes 'til the dinner starts."

"Sounds like loads of fun," Daud said, dropping back into his chair and picking his glass up. "A polite dinner with polite folk. Sign me up."

"Well, you are. Go get dressed. Terra, you too."

"Screw that," countered Daud. "I'm not goin'. Give Haymitch my regards."

Anger flashed across Finch's eyes. "Daud, we're supposed to be there. We. That means you too."

"Yeah. Sorry, not gonna make it."

I started to say something, but Finch pushed me towards the door. "Terra, out. Go get dressed."

"But –"

"Now. I laid out your dress earlier. Go."

Sulking, I dashed out of the kitchen as Finch rounded on Daud. I didn't shut the front door all the way, however, nor did I run off to go get dressed. I wanted to listen.

"What the hell are you doing?" I heard Finch say. "It's one night, Daud."

"So they're not gonna miss me much. Great."

"And what are you saying about our district when you don't show up? When it's just two out of us three?"

"That I don't do fancy dinners? That's what a normal person would think."

Someone slapped a wall. "She doesn't have anyone else to look up to, get it?" Finch yelled. "You know what message you're sending to Terra?"

"That she shouldn't care about fancy dinners, either?"

"That it's alright to half-ass everything! What the hell happened to you? You weren't always like this back when we first met, or so many of those years later. But now, these last three years especially, you've been so…so goddamn lazy!"

"Sorry I'm not living up to your ideal. I didn't realize we were fucking married."

"It's not _us_!"

"Then what is it? In actual plain terms, not with your little implications and hints."

"A long time ago, way back when I first knew you, you said you would've wanted kids if you hadn't been a victor. Well there! That's the closest you're gonna get!"

"Oh, so I'm the bad parent? Gods, what does that make you?"

"A helluva lot more responsible!"

"Grow up, Finch! This is all bullshittery. We don't have to stand on ceremony to give Terra the right direction."

"She's gonna be a victor the rest of her life. That's a lot of years of 'standing on ceremony.' Think for a stupid second!"

"And that's a lot of years where she can pick and choose how to live. Stop trying to force everything in your damn pigeonhole."

I clapped my hands over my ears, shut my eyes, and slumped down on the porch, my back to the wall, sand kicking up around me. Another bad outcome that centered on me. Another argument that, just…_ugh_. I didn't want to say it. Another argument that would've have happened if I wasn't here.

The glittering blue dress resting on my bed didn't ease my self-loathing, and it was all I could do to keep myself from crying as I smeared makeup all over my face. Finch looked angry as she gathered me for the dinner, and neither of us said a word as we trudged down the dirt roads into town.

Light poured out of the Hall of Justice into the bright night, with a milky full moon watching overhead. Capitol banners and television screens still hung around the square from the earlier speech, and Finch half-dragged me through the front doors as I lingered to look about.

"There's a lot of people who are going to be here, okay?" Finch said, stopping me down one of the halls. Forlorn old man looked on from their oil painting prisons along the walls, their lips turned up in stoic smiles as if chuckling at my misery.

"I know, Finch," I mumbled. "We did it last year. And the year before."

"Roan's going to be here, and Haymitch, and their escort, their stylist too –"

"Finch, I know!"

She nodded, gave me an uneasy smile, and led me into the main assembly room.

It was a far cry from any Capitolian gala. A scant two tables of food lined opposite walls, filled with desert delicacies that I'd tasted for far too many years. The Capitol-made chandeliers couldn't hide the dust that had built up on their bulbs. A stain outlasted multiple laundry runs here and there on the giant golden tablecloth that lined the great meeting table at the center of the room, now host to pitchers of wine and ale. District…dignitaries, I suppose, though I hesitated to use the term…filled the room, talking with the few Capitolians there, eying the Peacekeeper guards who covered the entrances, and turning in unison as Finch and I stepped in.

Finch smiled, patted my arm, and said, "I'm gonna go mingle. Have fun. Talk to people."

Easier said than done. As soon as she abandoned my side, a trio of older men I didn't know – or at least didn't remember – wandered up, asking this shallow question and that. I wrangled up poor excuses to get away and hide at a food table, filling up a carved stone goblet to the brim with wine and taking a long drink.

Fifteen more agonizing minutes passed before the doors to the waiting rooms opened to our guests. Some green-haired, yellow-faced woman with eyes too large for her head trotted in first, waving, smiling, and giggling as she shook hands and chatted with the first people she ran into. _Escort_. I suddenly felt guilty for having an escort like Elan, a man who did his job and want over and above for his charges but never lost himself in the fineries of the position. Didn't look like District 12 was so lucky.

Finally the newest victor walked in. Roan Hawthorne looked even less interested than he'd seemed at the speech. Could the boy even smile? He was eighteen like me, but his close-cropped black hair, high cheekbones, and forlorn gray eyes made him look older. Something close to cynicism flashed across his face as he looked around, his frown deepening a tad as he shook hands. I felt for him. I didn't want to be here either, not after my conversations with Daud and Suleiman.

Haymitch wandered in a few steps behind him, even less eager to socialize. He flashed a plastic smile, wiped his long gray hair out of his eyes, and shouldered his way through the crowd as the guests swarmed his victor.

He wasn't just looking to avoid people, however. He spotted me, made eye contact, nodded, and made a beeline in my direction. I didn't have time to flee before he was on me, frowning, putting a hand on my shoulder, and saying, "Why don't we move off to a corner in private?"

"Hello, too," I grumbled, but I didn't fight him. I didn't view Haymitch too highly – he seemed like a version of Daud who'd lost all fight and hope, and he hung out with freaking Johanna Mason to boot, an instant negative – but the last thing I wanted was to create drama tonight.

Haymitch stole a goblet of wine as we slid into an unoccupied corner of the room far from the action. "Lovely party," he said with a roll of his eyes and a swig of wine.

"What d'you want?" I said, folding my arms and looking away.

"Woo. I'm feeling chilly, too."

"Haymitch, come on."

"Already shaping up to be a pleasant evening. Fine, sweetheart. I was going to ask you for a favor, but if you're too busy trying on your pouty face –"

I waved my hands above my head. "I'm having a bad day. Alright. What's your favor?"

Haymitch frowned, drank, looked around, and lowered his voice: "Look. The boy's not the most social kid ever."

"Roan?"

"No, my dog. What do you think?"

I sighed. "Well, I'm not the most social person, either."

"Oh, bull-double-shit, sweetheart. You get along fine enough with the other victors your age."

"There's no one else to talk to, that's why."

"Well, sure, there's…" he paused and waved his goblet. "Yeah. But do me a favor. No one knows that girl who won last year. And that guy from 2 who won two years ago's a pain in all the wrong places."

"So what? You want me to play friends with your victor?"

Haymitch tilted his goblet and gave me a wry smile. "Friends is a pretty loaded word. But it looks like we're lacking in other younger victors in District 12. It's not like I could've gotten both my tributes out of the arena to give him someone to talk to."

"Why don't you ask Drake to do it? They can do guy-time. Drake's not much older than me."

"Yeah, Drake Odair's a fruit, for one. Second, Roan's not the most optimistic of kids. Shoving Mr. Shiny in his face doesn't sound like a great pairing, does it?"

I slumped my shoulders. "Fine. Any advice to talk with him, then?"

"Smile more. You look like you want to kill something," Haymitch said. "Go, uh…chat up all these fine, upstanding people."

Psh.

I was surprised to see Haymitch give half a hump about his lone victor, but something in his plea touched me. _He doesn't want Roan to turn out like himself_. That was all I could gather: Haymitch hadn't had a victor for nearly half a century. I doubted he wanted Roan to follow in his footsteps. Even with that, however, I struggled to find Roan all evening. It wasn't until after at least an hour had passed and a handful of people had filed out that I could get a good layout of the room. Fancy-looking people I didn't know here, plates loaded with half-eaten cactus pears and pulled pork there, Finch and Haymitch chatting in a far corner, a goblet of wine sitting on an end table between them. Everywhere I looked – no Roan.

I walked up and down the room twice to make sure he wasn't here, evading half-hearted attempts to get my attention from others on the way. No Roan. A door opened ajar on the far end of the room, just open enough for me to see. Well then. I looked around for a last time, and upon not seeing him, slipped through the door.

The desert air had cooled drastically, and I rubbed my arms to stay warm as I stepped outside. Winters were hot in District 5 given that we were Panem's southernmost district, but temperatures dropped quickly at night. It never snowed here, but that didn't stop the air from feeling icy on my bare shoulders.

The full moon cast shadows behind shrubs and rocks. A pair of glowing eyes stared at me from the branches of a palo verde tree as a ringtail cat clung to its perch. Somewhere up above, an owl hooted as it watched over the shady quiet of the downtown district.

A shadow shuffled a dozen feet away.

I stepped past the tree as the ringtail cat leapt to another tree, seeking safety from my intrusion. There: On a rock beside a building sat Roan, parked behind a cactus and veiled by a creosote bush. Before him, a lone emperor scorpion crept along the ground.

I did my best to smile and said, "Hey." He looked up, startled, his eyes full of suspicion. Trying to remedy my abrupt arrival, I said, "Boring party anyway. Is that your first cactus?"

He ignored my attempt at small talk. "You're Terra, right?" he asked, his voice rich and dark.

I nodded, and he looked back at the scorpion as it slipped into a crack in the wall of the building. "How do you think the average day goes for the average person in there?" he said, propping his elbows on his knees and sticking out his lip. "Wake up late. Screw their wife, husband, friend, whoever. Go to work, maybe file some papers? Go home early afternoon. Screw their mistress. Drink. Sleep. Something like that?"

Trying my best to laugh, I ventured, "What?"

"Nothin'."

An awkward pause settled over us. I clasped my hands and played with my thumbs, hoping he'd say something. When he didn't, I tried my best to break the tension: "So…are you liking being a victor?"

"Feels normal."

"Normal?"

"Pretty tiring. So pretty normal."

Gods, Haymitch wasn't joking. I looked back at the Justice Hall, wondering if I should leave Roan to his thoughts. Deciding to stick with it, I said, "I remember going to District 12 during my Victory Tour. It seemed…kinda nice. Quaint."

He snorted. "How long'd you stay there?"

"Like, a day."

"It is the goddamn backwater. People there wouldn't even know the Capitol and the districts exist if it weren't for the Peacekeepers and the Games. Might as well be in the middle of the ocean, or on one of those stars up there."

"It's like that a lot of places. Even here sometimes," I said.

"Then it's all a backwater without borders," he said.

After another silence, he said, "So what d'you do?"

"Me? I…I fix solar panels on the power plants in my spare time. I try to help my brother at his pub, but he doesn't want my help a lot."

"Yeah, I don't care about that," Roan said, tossing a rock from hand to hand. "In the Capitol. Come Hunger Games time. What's the word?"

"Nobody else has told you?"

"Nope. Haymitch has been washing down too many drinks to say much."

"That's a way to find out things," I joked.

"I don't drink."

I looked down at my hands. Gods, this kid was tough to figure. "I chat with people. Try to convince them to pay me for my tributes. Try to tell my kids everything they need to know to get out alive. Hasn't worked yet."

"Yeah," he said with a small grin. "Thought it was kinda like that. Anything else?"

"Look, why not – why don't you tell me about you? I don't even know you, really."

"Doubt you want to."

"Try me."

Roan fretted and tossed his rock to the ground. "What do I think? I think this is all a mistake."

"What is?"

"This. Districts. Panem. Hunger Games."

"Well, the Hunger Games, yeah. It's not exactly ideal."

"Think about it," he said, looking up and resting his chin on his thumb. "This all comes because some world before us blows themselves up, right? That's what they teach at school."

"Yeah. So?"

"So they didn't do a great job of blowing themselves up if we're still here. They only did enough of the job that we're making things like the Hunger Games and screwing people over. That's the mistake. Either live in peace or just jump off the tree branch with the noose around your neck, already. Instead, somewhere a mistake happens and Panem pops up. You can't tell me people starve to death because it's the best we can manage."

"It –"

"So, if Panem is a mistake, and the people who came before ended things with a mistake, are all people a mistake? Look at that spider there."

"Tarantula."

"Whatever you call it. It doesn't make a Hunger Games. Hell, it doesn't know it 'is.' Only us people know that. We're the only things that can worry about this crap. That kinda thing doesn't seem very useful to me. Dogs don't worry. Spiders don't worry. Birds don't. Just people. We're the only ones who can come up with ideas that make problems even worse. No other animal comes up with the idea to have a children's killing contest run indefinitely as punishment for a war. I mean, who rationally comes up with that? What does that solve? Just the idea of that implies creating more problems than solutions, yet here we are. Us. Mistake."

I stared off into the night. Roan was…strange. Smart, no doubt, but strange. I didn't have conversations like this with other people. It was…well, I wouldn't want a Peacekeeper to overhear us.

"Maybe there's a reason behind it," I said, eying the church belltower in the distance.

"Yeah, people do dumb things. That's it."

"I mean…"

"What, some sort of spiritualism thing? That's funny," he snorted.

I had a strange feeling about Roan all of the sudden, and in wanting to know more, I asked, "Did you…do you ever talk to your family or parents about this kind of thing? Or Haymitch? Now that you're a victor and all?"

"Haymitch? Ha," he laughed. "Nah, not Haymitch. My mother…uh, she doesn't do step-by-step thinking well. I mean, I wouldn't let her take care of planning big things."

"Is that what your dad does?"

"Nah. He got sick and died."

_Ach_. I felt horrible the instant he said that. All credit to Roan for admitting that like he was admitting his favorite food, but why did I have to press? "I'm…sorry."

"Mm, well, screw it. Sister too. Boo-hoo, right?"

Gods, I was digging myself a deeper hole with every word. Why did Roan have to be so candid? I almost wished he'd pushed me away and sulked instead, just so I wouldn't have had to hear this.

In the end, I said nothing. Roan got up before I could force something out of my mouth, saying, "Haymitch is gonna hunt me down sooner or later. I'm going in."

I didn't say goodbye. I didn't do much of anything but watch him go. Instead, I sat down on his rock, watching the ringtail cat from earlier peer out at me from a bush, seeing me as a danger, a threat. I felt like it. Worse, maybe.

Maybe "bad person" didn't sum me up. "Mistake" sounded better.


	61. On the Offensive

_**+ A not-so-District 5-oriented chapter here as I play catch-up across Panem. Also, again thanks to FoxfaceFan1 and melliemoo for the great reviews! Good catch on my mix-up, mellie – I have a tendency to miss little details in pursuit of the big picture, so if you see any little things I've messed up, lemme know! Criticisms always welcome. As for Roan, well…heh. His parentage is interesting.**_

**/ / / / /**

"I've been getting some funny stuff out of 13."

Cyrus squinted at took a closer glance at the holographic displays. Peacekeeper Command was a Spartan place, its strategy rooms full of plain, gray steel, buzzing computer consoles, and complicated holographic maps littered with gray blocks and red and green dots. Rigel sat in a swivel chair in front of him, swiping his hand across the map to enlarge a section of the display rife with the gray squares. _District 13_, it read. _Headquarters compound_. Behind them, Varno Rensler looked on.

"Any signs of mobilizing?" Cyrus said, trying to make sense of the map. District 13 wasn't his specialty. He'd helped clean up the riots in District 8 and had overseen Districts 4 and 3 for a time, but nothing like the old, nuclear-armed rival out east.

Rigel shook his head. "Nah, look at this. We've kept patrols hovering ten miles off of their defensive perimeter for years now. We go any closer, they'd pick us up. There's always this weird distortion feedback we get from their sensor fence. Tells us it's on. But the last couple months, every now and then, it'll stop. Like someone's turning off their defense grid, but only for a few minutes at most."

"Typical tests," Cyrus said, dismissing it. "We do the same out at District 2 all the time."

"They never do this," Rigel said. "They've got two lines of detection, an inner fence and an outer fence. They've tested new sensors on the inner grid, but for as long as I've been here, they've never tested the outer. Then all the sudden, a bunch of black-outs – on _both_ – for minutes at a time? Nah, there's something else going on at 13. I don't know if they're having troubles or what."

Varno walked up. "It's an opportune time, then," he suggested. "We've let them sit on a nuclear arsenal for a century. They can't win a war of attrition."

"That's the worst idea I've heard in a while," Rigel said. "The moment we move to attack, they fire off of their missiles. Mutually-assured destruction in a nutshell."

"You're thinking too much like a soldier. Why approach with a frontal assault when a covert attack – one or two warriors, even – can handle the district so much better?" Varno countered. "You watch your maps and your army all day, Rigel. I oversee our scientific developments. We've far outpaced District 13 in innovation, especially in our military wares. They never need know we've attacked until it's too late."

"And the risk is that we commit nuclear suicide. You're the science guru, not the Peacekeeper Captain-General, Varno. Don't tell me how to do my job."

"Wait a minute," Cyrus said. "I'm not saying we charge in there, but how long has our sterility virus hit them? Forty years?"

"Forty-five," Rigel said. "They're feeling it by now, if nothing else. Hard to keep up your numbers when no one can have babies, and you can't contact the other districts."

Cyrus nodded. "Right. So maybe it's some sort of diversion. Maybe they're desperate enough to pack up and move."

"Are you serious? Both of you?'

"Hear me out," Cyrus insisted. "Not their entire district, but a portion. Maybe, I don't know, District 12's been hit hard by two pox outbreaks in a half-decade. A quarter of the district killed off. Maybe District 13 thinks they can infiltrate 12, sneak out enough fertile men to get reproduction going again and stave off disaster. Throwing up some false data on their security fences might be a distraction."

"Assume that's true," said Varno. "You said it yourself. Forty-five years they've dealt with a rapidly declining birthrate. They don't have any contact with the other districts. We've never faced a better opportunity to wipe them out, and we have the weapons to do it."

"Bull," Rigel snorted. "We'd be throwing away a huge number of troops even on a successful frontal attack."

Cyrus held out a hand to stop him from going on. "What kind of weapons are you talking about?" he asked.

"Not anything as…" Varno looked down at Rigel with a mix of pity and contempt. "…_valuable_ as Peacekeepers. Every year my workers and I create killing machines for the Hunger Games. They're cheap. Mindless. Better still, the beasts we create are expendable."

"This is a joke," Rigel said, holding a hand to his forehead. "You – you want to attempt to breach District 13's lines with a horde of – the districts call them _mutts_. Are you freakin' serious?"

"Have you paid attention to what we're capable of?" Varno countered. "_Mutts_. We're far beyond animals, Rigel. Did you see the 96th Hunger Games? We had a beast whose closest analogue was a man. You have no idea what we're capable of. What we've created as you and your Peacekeepers have fallen back on traditional norms. Why risk human life when there's a much better solution?"

Cyrus stopped Rigel before he could protest further. "You sound like you have something in mind already, Varno."

"I have," the Capitol scientist said. "Right after last year's Games ended, Galan Greene contracted me to create something special for the fourth Quarter Quell. I think you'll find what we have far superior to the mere Peacekeepers."

Rigel gripped his arm's chair as if he was on the verge of strangling the man, but Cyrus kept him still. "We don't need to kill District 13 off –"

"Damn right," Rigel growled.

"- but what are you suggesting?"

"Containment," Varno answered. "If you want to detect any incursions by District 13 into our territory – incursions that some simple, backwards electric fence around District 12 can't account for, I already made that exact weapon for our Head Gamesmaker. It wouldn't take much to repurpose assets for the Hunger Games into military use."

"This is a terrible idea," Rigel groaned.

Cyrus cut him off: "I want to see."

"And you can," Varno said, grinning. "Let me spoil the surprise of this year's Games, gentlemen. For too long we've resorted to tried-and-true solutions for our problems. You'll be shocked by what our labs are capable of producing these days."

**/ / / / /**

"You lookin' for someone, pretty flower?"

I brushed my hair – not _my_ hair, but Misty's messy blonde curls – behind my ear and folded my hands, nervous at the sight of the near-empty church. For two months I'd kept at Lucrezia's assignment, attending midday services, learning what I could about the Church, and forging a relationship with Blaze – an altogether different kind of relationship than the one I was deconstructing bit by bit as Terra. It felt mean and all sorts of wrong, but revealing at the same time: Blaze wasn't just the kid I knew at work. He was…different. Multilayered. Faithful in ways I was only beginning to understand, and I had a feeling not all of them were good.

Still, I wasn't doing this to learn about Blaze. I was no closer to getting a private audience with Pyre after all this time. I'd seen lights flickering in the church late at night when I'd talked with my brother or tromped down to the merchant quarter for an evening purchase. I'd never known crowds to gather at the church as the moon floated above the canyon and the sky darkened, and while I'd always ignored the building at this hour before, I was intrigued now. Did believers meet for late-night, private services? Meetings? More?

Did Pyre?

Intrigued, I'd taken a leap of faith, replaced Terra with Misty, and had gone for a stroll.

A cloudy night sky blanketed the canyon in thick darkness, with only flickering street lights and the glow from homes lighting up the rocks and river. The stained glass windows of the church didn't look so reverent and illustrative at this hour. Instead, the flickering light from within made the depiction of the Shadow god in particular look even more ominous than Pyre's sermons made the trickster and evildoer out to be. He – it – looked like more than just a two-dimensional glass painting, but like a real man in a long, dark cape stretching out from the building, his hands lit up as if they were wielding fistfuls of fire, his eyes black and his face as pale as a corpse's. The giant, five-pointed gold sun of the Church high above the front doors shivered in the flickering light. I'd seen it tattooed onto the arms of faithful and stamped on personal possessions, but tonight it burned dark red as if it bled. Its thin, tendril-like flares that made up the five points, branching away from the sun's central circle, writhed with the dancing light.

Two…totems, for I had no better words to call them…hung outside the door on a metal pole. Each was a thin piece of rope winding around a trio of glowing black paper balls. Whether small light bulbs inside lit them up, or whether something else did, I didn't know. Charred, tangled strands of paper hung below the balls, bits of ash flaking off of them with each puff of the breeze.

Inside the church, only a single soul stirred. A big, burly man with wild red hair lit candles along the perimeter of the great room as I stepped in. A gray eyepatch covered one eye, the other a deep, vivid green that almost glowed in the flickering candlelight. Long shadows twitched and spasmed all over the room – shades of the chandelier above, the pews, the front altar, all of them twisting and lurching to and fro in the light of the fire. The man's voice was soft, warm, friendly even, like a grandparent's, fitting for his flowing brown shirt and trousers and totally ill-fitting of his powerful, muscle-laden body.

No Pyre. Just this man.

"I, um," I stammered, unsure of what I'd even intended to say when I got here, regardless of who met me. _This was not well-planned, Terra_. "I was just looking for someone."

He stepped back from lighting a candle on the altar, another one clutched in his big, paw-like hands. His dirt-streaked face blurred in the light. "Just me at this hour, hey. A humble follower. You lookin' for someone in particular?"

I shrugged. "Just a friend. I always saw the light on at nights and figured maybe he stopped by to…to worship or something."

The man smiled, a big, toothy grin. One of his upper canines had grown in at a sharp angle, crowding his incisors and leaving a large gap on one side of his smile. "Nah, this ain't a good time for prayer. The Darkness takes over in the night. The Moon's only a guardian, and even it casts its shadows. Especially on a night like this. Real dark. We gotta be with our own. You a new believer?"

"Sorta. Yeah. You?"

"Oh, nah, I've always been a follower. Even when I didn't know it. Even when others told me otherwise."

This man had really bought the whole song and dance. I hoped Blaze didn't go around spouting _this_ level of bunk in private.

"Um…are you just lighting candles?" I said, debating between probing for more information and beating a retreat before the guy could give me a sermon.

He grinned and waved his candle towards the wall. "Someone's gotta keep the fire goin'. The battle won't ever end, y'know? Light vs. Darkness. It's always been that way. Always gonna be. 'Til the dark sun rises. I've seen how black it can be. The eyes of ones we think we know…black in 'em. Black centers. Black corners. Sometimes it takes a while to see it, and then we gotta steel ourselves for the fight."

His cryptic words unnerved me. "Do you – do you know where I can find Pyre?"

"At this hour? Nah, not here, girl. He's probably lookin' into Agartha right now."

"Where's that? Never heard of it."

"Oh, it's down below. Way, way down below. No darkness there. Only fire. The Flame judges."

I wasn't going to get anything more than enigmatic rambling from this guy. He was probably from Redhammer, homeless even. I guess if the Church was the only thing that had given him a handout in his life, he would eat up all its teachings, even the craziest of them.

"Who was that friend you's lookin' for?" he said, stopping me as I turned to leave. "Might be able to tell 'em you lookin' if I know 'em."

Hm. Couldn't hurt. "His name's Blaze. He –"

"Oh, yeah! I know the boy. Good young man. He's part o' that group that meets here a lot. Early mornin's."

What now? I feigned interested: "There's a group?"

"Oh yeah. Mostly young people. Y'know, fillin' their heads with knowledge. Some good kids. You should stop by. If you friends with him, you'd probably fit right in."

"Yeah? When's it meet?"

He rubbed a lump on his waist. It was probably a tool of some sort, wrench or hammer maybe, but in the faint light, it looked like a pistol. The flickering flames made everything seem scary.

"I know the first of the month," he said after a long pause. "Dunno how often after that. But that's in just a few days here, in'it?"

I nodded, turned, frowned, and looked back: "What's your name?"

"Oh, I don't got a name, pretty flower," he said. "I've seen the servants of Darkness, and they called me somethin' once. That ain't my name, though some o'them still call me it. I'm just a follower. Just like you. Like all us, no matter who we were once and who we thought we were. We just believe. Ain't that all there's to it?"

I tried to smile, but the corners of my mouth refused to curl up. Biting my lip, I nodded and turned away. All there was to it. Not if Lucrezia and Xanthia were right.

I hurried away from the church out into the dark night, racing for the safety of home.

**/ / / / /**

"So two teams?"

"Two teams. We board at the same time. First group goes in and gets the goods. Second group, that's us, sticks around and makes sure the ship malfunctions."

"So sinks?"

"Duh, Wade. I said that exact thing when Rio and I went over this."

Brooke ran her hand over her bone knife, the blade tied on to her belt with a thick cord. She hadn't felt this kind of nervousness since…well, since the Pale Man had seen her two and a half years ago, right before the Peacekeepers had torn down the Blue House and killed everyone inside. She'd watched her contact face off with them, hell, she'd watched him _take a bullet_, yet still he provided her and Rio with intelligence at a regular pace. Despite that, he'd never shown up in District 4 again since that point. The Pale Man had told Brooke several times that he had things to do away from here, but would it kill him to give the insurgents a heads-up in person every now and then?

Tonight she had to pick up the leadership again. Rio wasn't the kind of man to go raiding unmanned drone cargo ships from District 3, and he knew that just as much as Brooke did. He was a charismatic man, the kind who could sell a fight for independence and liberty, but she had the fighting chops. She'd proven that from the arena to the Capitol train they'd boarded at the station just two months ago, staging an accident to ensure the clean getaway of a stolen crate of munitions and weapons – and to explain away a Peacekeeper's untimely demise at Brooke's hands. The intel of the Pale Man had panned out time and again. Their little freedom-fighting group was as well-stocked as it had ever been.

Brooke had no reason to doubt his information again tonight.

An inky blanket of clouds watched over the sea's sloshing black waves. Lights twinkled from the docks and trawlers at port off on the shore as six men rowed a sleek driftwood boat out to sea. Another, larger boat followed behind, lost in the fog rolling in as the nippy daytime temperatures gave way to the near-freezing chill of the evening. Off in the distance, maybe a mile away, a large, looming, block-like shape crept out of the fog, headed towards the docks.

_Even the kid's jumpy_. Brooke eyed Wade Fowler as he worked the nearest oar, his hands shaky. She put a lot of trust in the passionate, if overeager, kid from the richer parts of the district who was only too happy to accompany her on the insurgency's shadow campaign against the district's Peacekeeper garrison. Theft. Bribery. The occasional hit. They weren't well-equipped now to reveal themselves and fight out in the open, _but soon, soon…_

She had another reason for keeping Wade close, however. He was off-again, on-again friends with someone she wanted to win over very much – another victor, but one a lot younger. Her last attempt to do so hadn't been much of a success.

"Really gonna be no one onboard?" said one of the other rowers, a bear-like man with a thick, scruffy beard named Kason. "I dunno how you get a boat down from another district with no one onboard."

Brooke narrowed her eyes and watched as the Capitol supply ship inched closer and closer, emerging from the fog like a lazy whale too sleepy and dumb to see the sharks headed its way. "They use a computer to do it. Look, I don't know the details. It's from District 3. That enough?"

"Heh," Kason smirked, grunting with another pull of his oar. "Screw it. Makes everything easier."

"Then shut up and row. I don't like taking chances, and the more you gab, the more chances we take."

Brooke knelt down over the boat's prow and cradled a pistol. Capitolian-made, silenced, low-recoil, large-magazine – a Peacekeeper favorite amongst sidearms, these things also made it easy for Brooke and other insurgents to get a feel for guns without years of soldier training. Just point and shoot. _Of course, easier to say when you've been in a life-or-death struggle before. None of these screwballs have gotten out of the Hunger Games._

That was what fighting came down to, after all. The man made the weapon, not the other way around.

As the supply ship loomed large, closer and closer, Brooke closed her eyes and went over the plan of attack one more time. Wait for the boat to pass, then snare the deck with a pair of grappling hooks. No resistance – drone-controlled ships had halls and other passages for dockworkers, but no sailors crewed these things while making the trek south down Panem's western coast from District 3 to District 4. Easy form there: According to the shipping manifests the Pale Man had sent, the ship would have a few large explosives in a trio of metal crates, each marked with a green flame symbol. Get them onto the second boat, wait for that crew to leave, and Brooke and her team would burn a hole in the boat as they made their escape. Quick in, quick out, and no one would be the wiser until the morning – when the ship would be a creaking wreckage on the seabed.

So why was she so nervous?

"Hold here," she said under her breath.

The rowboat rocked on the waves as the Capitol ship approached – two hundred meters, one hundred. Brooke reached down and picked up one of the grapplers, getting a firm grip on the rope and imagining her throw. The ship looked to have a high deck. She'd have to put her arm into it.

Fifty meters. Twenty. Ten.

"Now!"

Brooke stood up and hurled her grappler. The metal hook sailed through the air, disappearing into the darkness into a loud _clank!_ sounded. She heaved on the rope, checked for tension, pulled it tight, and after snaring her end of the rope to a hook on the boat's bottom, gritted her teeth for the next part.

"You get yours?" she asked without looking up.

"Nah. Missed."

"Try again. I'm going up."

As Kason fished his missed grappler out of the water for another throw, Brooke grabbed the rope of her hook with both hands, turned around, and clutched her feet to the taut line. Inch by inch, she shimmied up the rope towards the deck high above. Higher, higher. Her hands burned, but Brooke bit her lip and vaulted the gunwale onto the deck. Crates rumbled all around her, but what she was looking for would be down in the lower hold. She rubbed her hands to ease the burn, let her breath out, and let her eyes wander up to the command station on the ship's bridge. On the manned Capitol boats that ferried troops between the coastal districts, a few bridge crew would use the station for navigation and communication. The bridge only housed the drone computer mind and a backup emergency manned control station on a ship like this, but the Capitol engineers left the superstructure in the ship's design and construction for modularity's sake.

As Brooke looked up to the windows of the bridge, however, she saw something she didn't expect. Rather than the blinking red lights of the drone station, a pair of incredulous, wide-eyed faces stared down at her.

"Oh shit! Get up here, now!" she screamed, ripping her gun off her belt and charging towards the bridge.

Brooke smashed open the door to the interior just as a man ducked down from a ladder. He was diminutive for a Peacekeeper, she thought, and he didn't wear armor – just plain, ordinary clothes. That didn't stop from him reaching for a pistol on his belt, however.

_Kshew!_ Brooke knelt and fired before his hand reached the grip. A miss, but he panicked, stumbling, landing squarely in the path of Brooke's second bullet.

"Gayah!" he screamed, tumbling to the ground, a bloody hole bursting from his thigh. His gun skittered away along the metal deck. Brooke dashed forward to pick it up, keeping her pistol trained on the writhing man as she reached the ladder. A second man stood on top of it, looking down with a horrified expression as Brooke aimed her gun at him.

"Drop it!" she snarled. "I know you're armed! Drop it down here or end up like buddy-boy!"

He flailed, throwing his hands in the air as another gun clattered down the ladder well. Brooke stuffed it in her belt, keeping one gun trained on each man as Wade burst through the door.

"The hell…" he started.

She shook her head. "Keep an eye on him! He's not gonna die – make sure he doesn't try to crawl away."

"I thought no one was on board?"

"Yeah, well, guess again. You up there! Back the hell up. Anybody else up there?"

"N – nah –"

"Then back up!"

_God,_ Brooke thought as she climbed the ladder to the bridge. _Freakin' nightmare. _The Pale Man's intel had let her down for once. _Drone ship my rear_.

The second Capitolian cowered in a corner of the bridge as Brooke entered. It was a small room, filled with lights and computer consoles that may as well have been gibberish. "How many of you are here?" Brooke growled, aiming her pistol at the man's face. "Got anyone below deck?" He shook his head, gulping. "Do I look like I'm screwing around?" Brooke barked. "How many more?"

"None! I swear, man. Miss. Please."

"Then why're you even here, huh?" she snarled. "You and your Capitol buddy just decide to go for a pleasure cruise?"

He shook his head, his lip – his entire _face_ – trembling before Brooke's rage. "I'm not from the Capitol, miss, I swear! I work at one of the labs in 3. I'm just a tech developer. I swear!"

"You're screwing with me!"

"I swear! Please! I've got a couple kids! Please don't shoot!"

She considered shooting right then. _God damn liars_. Typical pity story. _Oh, miss, I've got kids. I've got a cute little wife. A cat, too. A quaint house. Aging parents. _Psh. Capitol fairy tale.

"What're you doing here, then?" Brooke said, keeping her finger off the trigger despite her eagerness to fire. "Just a damn cargo ship."

The man nodded and squeaked as Brooke waved the gun at him. "Please! It's – it's a – there's a thing they ordered. We made a – a package for the hovercraft here in your district. I'm not lying! I helped write the software! They wanted the two of us to come along to help instruct them in how to use it –"

"That's the lamest story I've ever heard," scoffed Brooke.

"I'm serious! They even – when I saw you jump on board, I –"

"You what?" Brooke shouted. She waved the gun at him again when he gaped in silence. "You what, asshole?"

Kason leapt up from the ladder. In her interrogation, Brooke hadn't even paid attention to the rest of the job. "The hell is this?" her companion breathed. "Wade said there're people and shit on here? We got the crates –"

Brooke wheeled on him. "They're here?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't they be? What's this about this guy? The other guy too?"

"What'd you do when you saw me?" Brooke yelled at her prisoner. "What'd you do?"

He shook his head, swallowed, and closed his eyes. "I hit the panic button."

"The what?"

"It – I'm sorry, please! I don't want to die! It's the Peacekeeper alert thing – "

Kason growled, raised his gun, and before Brooke could say anything, fired a single shot. _Kshew!_ The ship supervisor jerked as the bullet hit him just under his eye. Blood squirted out, then gushed from his nose as he slumped over.

"Dammit," Brooke said, gritting her teeth. "Did you get the crates off?"

"Just finished up," Kason said. "Boat got away as I was coming up here. They got Peacekeepers coming? We gotta make this fast, Brooke."

"I know, I'm thinking –"

She didn't have two seconds before a low roar shook the glass of the bridge's windows. A sleek, delta-winged hovercraft rumbled overhead, almost invisible in the dark of the night.

"Get down below," Brooke murmured, her eyes wide. "Get down now. Kason, c'mon."

Brooke hustled down the ladder before he could reply. Wade still held his pistol against the other prisoner's head, but he'd heard it too. "What's going on?"

"Leave him," Brooke said, her chest heaving. "Kason, get down here!"

"They're doin' something!" her comrade-in-arms shouted down from the bridge. "They got a rope or a cable coming down from the hovercraft, hey!"

"Kason –"

"Dammit, Brooke, we gotta stand here and fight 'em! Those animals're coming down onto the deck! Peacekeepers!"

"Don't do something dumb! Get down here before they see you!"

The District 3 man whined in terror, and Wade pressed his pistol to the man's head. "You shut the hell up!"

"Don't shoot, dammit!" Brooke yelled. "Kason –"

_Pow!_

The bridge exploded. The tinkle of shattering glass gave way to the roar of fire as a burst of heat blasted Brooke back. Once she got up, she didn't bother checking on the bridge – Kason couldn't have survived that. She grabbed Wade as the District 3 man rolled around on the ground while clutching his injured leg. "Come on!"

"The hell are we gonna do?" Wade gasped. Two of their boat's crew rushed out of the door, guns drawn. "They're gonna kill us all!"

"Screw it!" Brooke said, gritting her teeth. "Leave that idiot! Forget about sinking the ship! We gotta go!"

"What about the others?"

"Dammit, Wade, come on!"

A loud scream accompanied the _pop-pop-pop_ of rifle fire as Brooke pushed through the door to the deck. Flames gushed out of the bridge. She forced Wade to the gunwale and sized up the situation. The coast was maybe a mile off from here at its nearest point. It'd be a long swim, but not unmanageable. Rowing the boat back was an unthinkable proposition at this point – even if the other boat had gotten away with the cargo – and she had a feeling it had, given that the hovercraft focused its floodlights down at the deck – trying to paddle away would only draw unwanted attention.

No, swimming it was.

"Up you go!" Brooke said. As Wade protested, she grabbed his shoulder and forced him up and over the gunwale.

As Brooke prepared to jump overboard after him, a Peacekeeper rounded a pair of crates on her. He raised his rifle to his shoulder – _bang!_ She tumbled and dove out of the way as a bullet ricocheted off of the deck, falling to the metal and raising her pistol. _Kshew!_ She fired once, twice, three times – missing the first shot but clipping his shoulder with the second. As he fell, the third bullet drilled him straight under the chin.

_No time to lose!_ Brooke didn't wait to see his body fall. She vaulted over the gunwale as a rocket from the hovercraft smashed into the ship's superstructure. _Whoosh!_ Fire tickled her back as she plunged down, down to the sea, hitting the water and diving into the inky depths. Hot colors danced across the surface as engine oil and ammunition cooked off.

Brooke saw Wade swimming away a few feet in front of her. She threw her energy into her arms, gliding through the water and catching up with him. She got his attention and pointed down – they had to swim down here, avoid breaking the surface except to catch air. _Long swim ahead, kid_.

As she prepared to make her escape, Brooke glanced up one more time. Fire ruptured out of a gash in the ship's hull. She didn't need to worry about survivors, or sinking the ship, for that matter. The Peacekeepers were doing a pretty good job making sure no one was getting out of that mess of tangled steel and burning oil alive.


	62. The Strategists

_**+ Thanks to FoxfaceFan1 and melliemoo for the reviews! Something of a transition chapter here. The big action and revelations are set to come later. Gotta put in the set-up first…**_

**/ / / / /**

_Early in the morning, first of the month_.

I camped out in an empty shed on the edge of the town square at first light, keeping an eye on the entrance to the church from a crack in the shed door. It was dark in here, and I wanted nothing more than to run to the first place with lights on and barricade myself inside. Unfortunately, that wouldn't put me any closer to figuring out just how deep the Church ran.

After what felt like at least an hour of squatting atop a splinter-lined stool in the shed, the first churchgoer walked up to the chapel's doors. She was young, maybe a year or two older than I. More followed, all of them around the same age, late teens, early twenties.

_Hmm. Creepy candle-lighting guy was on to something._

I couldn't pick out Blaze from this distance, but that didn't matter. If he showed up, great. If not, I'd step in anyway and see what this youth group thing was all about.

It sounded shady, and my heart pounded as I waited. Separate a bunch of kids – or young adults, whatever – and make them listen to some religious rambling? I guessed said talk wouldn't just limit itself to theological or ontological chats, either. Lucrezia's distrust of the Church made more sense as I contemplated: Get a bunch of kids to buy into the most zealous of the ideals, and they'd be capable of anything years down the line. Violence? Purges? Sure. As long as it was for the cause.

After a handful more people filed into the church, I got up, dusted off my pants, straightened my wig, and stepped out of the shed.

I wasn't alone outside the church, however. The man from the other day, the one lighting the candles, was back – this time standing on a rickety scaffold, smoothing mortar over a crack in the church walls. His grin was all gap-lined teeth as I approached.

"I thought you might be back," he said. "I didn't see the young man you were lookin' for, though. Maybe he's out sick. Or workin' early?"

_Dammit_. The one time I was counting on Blaze and he ditched. Wonderful. "Well I was…I wanted to hear what this youth group had to preach, anyway," I said, trying not to trip over my words. "Thanks for letting me know."

"Oh, it's no big thing. More ears hearin' the words's only good, right?"

I forced a smile. "Right."

He dropped down from the scaffold. "I was about finishin' up anyway. You have fun this mornin', pretty flower. I got some things to take care of. 'Sides, I'm too old for your kids's groups, anyway."

With no Blaze on hand I – Misty – would have to play things carefully. No speaking up. No ambitious moves. Just pretending to be a young believer wanting to hear more of whatever the Church spewed. Tempering my expectations and swallowing my anxiety, I walked in.

Right off the bat I knew I wouldn't remember any of their names. They were dusty-faced and doe-eyed kids, most only a few years older than me if that, some younger. A few older boys took over, having the few of us new to the group introduce ourselves, and I played up Lucrezia's fake story as well as I could. Pretending amongst these folk was easy: They were all too willing to buy into some forlorn, lost girl looking for solace. And why not? None of them had ever been beyond District 5's security fence. A few had never even been close to it. I could fake blending in with them, pretend to be enthralled as the older boys had us talk about how our lives were more than the dirt and the sand and the dust, but I'd never be a part of these people. Hells, I'd never want to.

Suleiman was on to something, I supposed. This did bore me. An hour in and I wanted anything else but to listen to a girl my age lament how the Shadow had corrupted her father and led him down a path to alcoholism, and might we all pray that he abandon the bottle and see that his wife and children needed his paternal guidance? It made Finch chewing me out seem exciting and novel.

When I struggled to keep my eyes open and my brain felt as if it'd melt away into sludge, however, a visitor stepped in. One of the older boys went quiet amidst a story, and the others all met his gaze. The church's doors shut quietly as Pyre York strolled on, his hands cupped, a sincere smile playing across his lips.

He looked around as we all stared his way and said, "A few new faces in the crowd today. It's heartwarming to see you all here. Don't let me disturb you."

The boy who had been talking changed directions, sensing a need to wrap the group meeting up: "Um – how about we go around? Anyone who needs to ask something? One of our first-timers have a confession?"

I don't know what had brought Pyre here, but I knew an opportunity when I saw it. I raised my hand, trembling as I did, and upon receiving a nod from the boy, stood up and cleared my throat. Good thing I was used to attention by now. Time to play the part. "I have something. I – I never really had a family. My mother…she gets around. I don't even know any father of mine. For eighteen years I didn't believe in anything, and I came here on kind of a whim. I just…I want to ask you all to hope for me, okay? I want a family of my own. I've never really had one. I've tried to connect with my mother, but…maybe I just needed to turn to what was right the whole time. You know? I don't want to fall into that same cycle. Please, just…I don't want to burden you by asking for help, but I want to connect with someone on a meaningful level. I don't want to fall into a cycle of misery like my family's done."

Pyre spoke up: "Do you accept our lords' blessings?"

"Yes. I do."

"Then don't be worried, child. Believe in better days. They'll come."

After everyone was done and the others began to file out, Pyre stopped me and pulled me aside. "Misty, isn't it?" he said. "I had seen you in our pews a few times before, always sitting next to Blaze. I understand you are friends?'

I gulped. Shoot. Lucrezia had pushed me to meet one-on-one with Pyre and here I was, without so much as one important thing to say. "Recent friends. I met him here."

"Fate. Providence," said Pyre. "Or maybe just coincidence. How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Ah. Still old enough for the Games, then? I suppose you're waiting for the Quell announcement next week like everyone else."

Damn it. I'd forgotten all about the Fourth Quarter Quell, or the fact that Calla Snow was set to announce the One Hundredth Hunger Games's twist in just a short week's time. _Ugh, too many things to keep track of…_

"Some time after that," Pyre continued for me. "I'll find you after a service. It sounds as if you're going through some trouble. I'd like to show you something."

I nodded and bit my lip, my words sticking in my throat. _What luck_. I'd need to plan, prepare for what to say to get anything meaningful out of him, but Misty Saban had done something of note after all.

When I reported to Lucrezia and Xanthia, however, they were less than impressed.

"Oh, poor Fake Terra, her family a mess, her dreams in tatters. I'm crying my eyes out. Excuse me, but Pyre's willingness to eat up your bull without a proper cross-examination screams 'trap.'"

I folded my arms at Xanthia's snark. Her office was too small for the three of us, particularly with Lucrezia seeming to take up as much room as she possibly could by splaying her legs and draping her arms across a wide folding chair. While I'd expected these two to be happy that I'd secured a potential one-on-one meeting with Pyre, they seemed anything but pleased.

"He was happy enough to ask me to stick around and talk!" I protested as Lucrezia rolled her eyes. "Look. All the other kids there at the group meeting, they really believed in all the church teachings and stuff. So, Pyre has a lot of influence there. Isn't that important to know?"

Xanthia snorted. "Really? He's figured out that brainwashing kids is a smart move? God, you're the nation's best informant, Terra. I'd like to know more. What district are we in?"

"Do you have anything more than just a pleasant chat in mind?" Lucrezia cut her off. "For all we know, Pyre pulls aside every wide-eyed teenage convert. As delightful as it is that you've finally managed to talk to the man one-on-one, it'd be better if you had some idea of just what he wants to show you. Or how you plan to keep him interested in you after your conversation. If your conversations with me are any indication, you have some work to do there."

"No, I want to know things, too!" I protested. "You both tell me this faith is bad news, and I get that it's way too deep for my liking. But why not just squelch it out if you're that peeved about it? Why go to the trouble of digging for information and fake identities and everything?'

"Because it's not just District 5, you goddamn idiot," said Xanthia. "Three faiths in Panem. There's that Storm Lord in District 4, who knows what they're on about. That morbid death shit in District 2. And then the Church of the Triad, the largest faith in Panem. Districts 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, and 11 all have offshoots of it. Goes back way before the Dark Days, back to whatever the old world people believed in. That satisfy you?"

I felt queasy as soon as Xanthia finished. Three years ago, the first time I'd met Pyre – Arrian had given me a letter to give to him. What message had I passed on? If the church stretched across, well, half of Panem, how much more dangerous was this belief?

"You let him take the reins the next time you meet," Lucrezia instructed. "Talk too much and you'll foul it up. If Pyre York wants to show you something interesting, you let him. If it's not interesting at all, at least pretend."

"What if it's something dangerous?"

"That's true," Xanthia nodded, looking sullen. "How will you ever react in a dangerous situation? It's not like anyone's seen you do that before, apart from the whole country."

I steamed. "Look, you just push papers or _manage_ or whatever the hell you work here for, you don't know –"

"That is all," Lucrezia finished for all of us. "You establish a rapport. You gather information. You tell us your findings. I have the distinct impression that if you try and rush it you'll throw a wrench in the whole system. The moment after your first meeting with Pyre, we'll all decide on a focused strategy based on what you learn in private. Do you understand?"

Fine. Fine, I could bide my time. But the more I waited, the more I cultivated relationships and learned and listened, the more I felt out of the loop. Lucrezia and Xanthia knew more than they were letting on about all this, I knew it. They wouldn't have bothered with me if they only wanted to hear about religious tenants. I wanted to know just what made them squirm.

**/ / / / /**

Rain washed down the windows of the Presidential Mansion. Gunmetal stratus clouds growled with thunder and lit up the Capitol with lances of lightning. Cyrus watched from inside the Assembly Hall as wind battered the room's great crystal windows. Even though it was only noon, the darkness outside contrasted so sharply with the interior's bright chandeliers that it seemed like night had fallen across the city at midday.

Next to him, Galan Greene yawned and took a long drink from a gold-plated goblet. "Bad weather for the morning," the Head Gamesmaker drawled. "I hardly woke up. Thought it was nighttime."

"It's not the morning anymore," Cyrus murmured.

"Speak for yourself! I woke up an hour ago. Barely remembered to show up for this little pow-wow."

"What are you drinking? Are you _drinking_ drinking at this hour?"

"Oh come on, Cyrus. Like you've never had wine for breakfast. It's a District 11 white."

Over at the table, Rigel punched in numbers on a hologram projector. "Why're you even here?" he asked Galan without looking up. "Aren't your Games a little higher on your list of priorities?"

"Nah, nothing that can't wait," he said, taking another drink. "Besides, I was out late. I'm still getting my head together. Not a good idea to go planning, you know?"

The fourth man around the table, Julian, smirked. "Not good to go planning an arena, but good enough to plan what's next for the country. Excellent foresight, Galan. Just what I expect from you."

"Don't give me that," the Head Gamesmaker snapped. "Don't you have a street to clean or something?"

Julian shrugged and nodded towards the window as a gust of window blasted it with rain. "Who's even showing up today?" he said, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up on the table's shiny, polished surface. "Obviously our illustrious dictator."

"Calla won't come. Count on it," Rigel said.

"Please. The only thing she dictates is this summer's fashion trend. Bright purple in this year, maybe?"

"Taurus is bringing Bera, I heard," Cyrus filled them in, still watching the rain pound away outside. "And Varno's tagging along."

"Bera?" Julian clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. "Bringing the daughter and leaving the son at home? That's a parenting no-no, isn't it? Child favoritism and all that?"

Rigel shook his head. "Marcus is a soft kid. He putters around in gardens and sculpts, I hear. Not exactly fitting for an only son of a prestigious man."

"Poor taste, too," Galan chimed in. "I tried to talk him up into looking into gamesmaking at one point, since all this…statecraft…isn't really up his alley. Boy turned me down. He says he doesn't even watch much of the Games. I can see why Taurus doesn't bring him up."

Julian glanced at Cyrus before saying, "And the world knows we'd be lost without your tips on taste, Galan. Are we going to have an attractive victor this year for you to bed?"

The room's great doors banged open before Galan had a chance to retort. Taurus strolled into the room, his frown gloomy, his eyes dark. His eldest child and only daughter followed in his footsteps, her head down and her lips parsed. Finally, Varno stepped in, surveying the room, grinning, closing the doors, and taking a seat in the closest chair to the exit.

"No Ms. Snow? I'm shocked," Julian said.

Taurus smacked the back of his chair as he headed for a seat at the head of the table. "Take your feet off the table and sit up like a proper human being. And no, the President won't be joining us. Nor do we need her to."

Galan was quick to chime in: "I have a meeting with her this afternoon, in fact. Finishing up preparations for the Quell announcement. She's probably busy. She'll need my expertise later, anyway."

"I assume she's busy tending to her presidential wardrobe," Taurus scoffed. "Which leaves us time to tend to affairs of state. Cyrus, Galan. Sit."

Cyrus pulled out a chair between Julian and Bera, putting some distance between him and Taurus. The council's newcomer in particular interested him: Bera seemed to be putting her own space between her and her father, as if she was afraid to so much as breathe wrong in his presence.

"About your arena, Head Gamesmaker," Taurus said to lead off. 'Tell me you're finished with the major preparations. I don't want to have to spend any more time than necessary discussing that spectacle."

Galan swelled in the spotlight, puffing out his chest and sitting up like a statue. "Oh, yes. I had the president herself make sure everything about it was up to par. Even had Varno open up his labs so she could get a good look on what we're planning on releasing for the cameras this year."

Cyrus glanced to his right. The Head Scientist looked less than pleased with the Head Gamesmaker, eying him with a particularly hateful disdain.

"About your little celebration plans," Julian spoke up. "How much of the city are you shutting down this year before the Games start? All of it? More than all of it?"

"It's not _shutting down_, it's _repurposing_. You should be grateful. I'm actually bringing in –"

"Answer his question," Taurus interrupted.

Galan paused and with a much quieter voice said, "Two weeks for all the usual districts. City Center, the Forum, all that."

"Two weeks?" Julian barked. "Are we going to watch your lucky chosen tributes flail around on chariots and smile for Cicero and Caesar for two weeks? One week is bad enough every year before you get them away to the arena."

"You might keep in mind that it's not just _Hunger Games: X edition_. It's the one hundredth running. That means we have to make it bigger, add in –"

"I think you've made your point," said Varno. "I'm sure two weeks of usurping the city is enough time for your show."

"Quite," Taurus agreed. "You have your answer, Julian. Enough about that. Rigel. Cyrus. I want your reports on the districts."

Cyrus sucked in a breath to begin, but Rigel glanced at him and held up a finger. _I got it._ "Cyrus and I caught some disturbances out of District 13 some time ago, and they haven't gone away. Security fence breaches, funny energy spikes in their power plants, a couple patrols that just fell off our map, things like that. They've been having resource problems with their population thinning out, but this cropped up all of the sudden."

"Which makes them desperate," Varno said. "This is a perfect time to strike them. If we don't, they could do it first. Reach out to District 12 perhaps, since they're still reeling from their latest pox outbreak. The longer we wait on 13, the more we waste an opportunity."

"We don't need to charge into a storm if it's thinning out," Cyrus countered. "We haven't had a major incident since District 4 four years ago. Let's enjoy a little quiet while we have it."

"And about District 4?" Taurus said. "Any news?"

Rigel sighed, glanced Cyrus's way, and said. "Yes. And there's going to be more news if we don't do anything about that, either."

"Beg pardon – "

"Silence," Taurus cut off Cyrus's protest. "Rigel, speak."

The Peacekeeper Captain-General opened up the hologram projector, sending up a three-dimensional map of District 4 across the meeting table. Blue dots concentrated around a small peninsula jutting out into the district's bay at its north end – the Presidio, the Peacekeeper fortress. "We had a supply ship coming in from District 3 not too long ago. It was carrying some hardware and other packages for our two hovercraft in the district, some munitions, and the like. Except when it got into the harbor, a small crew of partisans attacked it. One of our hovercrafts mounted a quick counterattacked and killed several of the terrorists, but from the reports, it looks like they got away with some weapons. Explosives, mostly."

Taurus stroked his chin. "A shame Lucrezia's in District 5. How many of the perpetrators have you rounded up?"

"So far, none."

"None?"

"All due respect," Cyrus said, holding up a hand. "But these people are on edge already. The moment we hang someone in the square, violence breaks out again."

"I'd say it already has," Galan snorted.

Cyrus shot him a nasty glance. "I'm talking full-scale rioting and revolt of the like we haven't seen since District 8 had its outbreak more than fifteen years ago. Burned down more than a hundred buildings and killed too many people on top of that. We don't want that again."

"And I don't want my soldiers unequipped to fight back when they're under attack," Rigel countered. "Taurus, our current response isn't enough. Let me reinforce the most vulnerable districts. Beef up the garrisons. Send out more hovercraft to ramp up security patrols. We're just rolling over for any idiot who feels uppity if we don't do anything."

"And if we do too much, we're falling right into their plans," said Cyrus. "This is exactly what happened with the Dark Days. A few incidents happen, too much force is sent in to keep the places quiet, and it's all too easy for someone charismatic to rally fighters to his cause. District 4's already got one such man in Rio West."

"Why is he still alive?" Taurus asked.

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. "We don't need to kill everyone who disagrees with us. Making a populist leader like that a martyr is an even bigger rallying point."

"Why don't you just have a public trial for people who break the law?" Bera said, speaking up at last with a tiny voice.

She shrank away as soon as Taurus scowled at her and said, "You're here to listen, not to chime in on what you don't understand."

_Yeah, but she has a point_, Cyrus thought. Maybe public trials were too ambitious – as Julian immediately chimed in, they could be seen as sham trials easily by a public who wanted any excuse to attack Peacekeepers – but something other than either rolling over for District 4's resistance or crushing everyone who blinked at the wrong time had to be a better option.

"Divert some forces away from District 1," Taurus said. "Send them to 4 to increase our presence, Rigel. At the same time, increase security around 11 and 12 in case 13 does have any ideas. Both districts are fertile grounds for insurgents."

"That's stretching us thin," Rigel said, fretting. "The thing is, we'd have to take men and hovercraft from 2 to do that, and they've been less enthusiastic about things lately, too."

Varno tapped the table. "If you don't, we're vulnerable to being closed in on by enemies on both coasts."

"Or we try a non-military solution first to keep order," Cyrus protested. "We're going to have a fight if we provoke one."

"Then let's pick our fight," Varno said. "I have a better idea. Reinforce District 4 as much as you want. Ignore 13. Leave me to keep an eye on them. In the labs, we're coming up with all sorts of new technologies every day. If 13 tries anything, it'd be an honor to test out our developments on them. You won't have to spend any Peacekeepers to contain them, and I'll have something to do besides feeding beasts to Galan's Hunger Games."

_What are you up to?_ Cyrus thought. He always felt the Head Scientist was holding something back whenever he spoke, as if Varno had cut out the real meat of his arguments right before he got to them. Strange stuff out of 13, sure, but the district hadn't so much as peeped since the Dark Days. Why the interest?

Taurus looked around the table and said, "Agreed. But I want hovercraft in 12 anyway. Rensler, 13 is yours to watch – but the moment anything major happens out of the ordinary, any sign of mobilization from their military, I want to know. Rigel, take half the Peacekeepers from the Capitol and District 1 garrisons to reinforce the riskier districts. 4, 5, 7, 8, 11. Make sure they start cracking down on crime harder. We've tolerated these little shows like in District 4 for long enough. If the districts can't behave themselves, then we'll remind them how to do so. The moment these people are confident they can get away with little crimes is the moment we find a real revolt on our hands."

Cyrus shook his head. _This is going to backfire._


	63. The Fourth Quell

_**+ Thanks for another review, FoxfaceFan1! Sorry for the long update time; been hitting some writer's block recently.**_

**/ / / / /**

The hovercraft had arrived early in the morning, hanging over the canyon top flats just north of the dam. Twelve hours later, it lingered there in the sky as blue and violet streaks overtook the waning sunset. Daud and I watched from the market streets as it disgorged a pair of cargo crates, dangling them by wires as Peacekeepers atop the canyon guided them down. I'd seen it offload soldiers much earlier, then cargo load after load.

It didn't sit well with me. District 5 had always been lax in terms of Peacekeeper oversight, and I'd seen Districts 11 and 8, with their urban redoubts and security checkpoints and streets lined with patrols. The thought of that coming here for whatever reason made me queasy.

"Probably be gone by tomorrow," Daud grunted, noticing my unease. "It's nothin'."

I shook my head. The hovercraft wouldn't have come for nothing. ""It'll come back with more."

Daud frowned and slung a bag of sweet potatoes and yams over his shoulder. "Leave it. It's nothin'. The TV's gonna talk to us soon anyway."

That it would. No one would miss Calla Snow's nationwide presentation in an hour. The unveiling of the fourth Quarter Quell and the one hundredth Hunger Games was mandatory viewing.

Bats fluttered about in the warm evening air by the time Daud and I got back to the Victor's Village. Insects chirped to the blowing of a dry, dusty breeze. Yellow light peeked out from between the blinds guarding Finch's house. Across the street, darkness shrouded my home. Every window faded to black. It felt cold even looking at the place, and I was glad to have company for the night – even if it meant listening to someone I detested announce what new hurdle I had to clear.

"What do you think the Quell's gonna be?" I asked Daud as we walked up to Finch's house.

He shrugged. "First time was districts' picks. Then doubles. Then all little kids. Gets more boring every time, so probably something even duller. All boys or something, who knows or gives a hump."

"I think we give a hump. It kinda affects us."

"Yeah, sure it does. Won't change anything in the end. Results are always the same."

Cicero Templesmith's stupid grinning face greeted me from Finch's living room. Daud dropped his sack of yams in the entrance way and banged about as he made himself at home, clearly frustrated with the whole exercise. I knew where he was coming from: In the end, one kid lived and the rest died. The results were the same from a top-down view, but we weren't looking at it like that. In the thick of things, the little details did matter. Whatever Calla announced tonight could mean a slight reprieve from the usual dull knife stab of the past few Hunger Games or the plunging of a hot needle straight into my waning resolve as a victor.

"It's just been usual gab so far," Finch said as I plopped down on a couch, a drink provided by Daud in my hand. She noticed my choice of beverage at once. "Maybe something non-alcoholic, Terra?"

"'M fine," I grumbled.

"It's not –"

"Let her drink. That's what you do on bad nights," said Daud, slouching down in a chair with a fistful of sliced ham and a half a block of cheese. Between him and me, we'd already taken Finch's spotless house down several notches.

Finch crossed her arms, but she wasn't looking for a row. She sat down away from the rest of us, throwing a disapproving look my way before turning back to the television.

On the TV, Capitolian spectators draped in every color imaginable packed the entire length of the Avenue of the Tributes. Bright spotlights lit up the City Circle and the Presidential Mansion as red and gold fireworks shot off above the skyscrapers. Cicero chirped with excitement and commentary alongside old Caesar, saying, "Now it's not just business as usual, even for a Quell, is it Caesar? One hundred Hunger Games. A century's worth of pageantry. That's an occasion to lay out all the best for."

"Well, the Quell twists, let's call them that, were decided a long time ago," Caesar reminded him. He took care of himself well despite being past age seventy: The old host's hair glistened and gleamed with a bright yellow flourish, and his skin showed not even the faintest sign of wrinkles. Only a tired rumble in his voice every other sentence or so reminded me that Caesar Flickerman had been doing this for more than forty years. "But that's not the real important part of it, Cicero. This year, two weeks of celebration before the gong kicks off in the arena. Everything bigger, everything better. Tonight's just the first step. The summer's going to be unforgettable."

"Speak for yourself," Daud grumbled.

Back in the Capitol, Cicero shouted, "There's our lady of the night coming up onto her platform right now – our one and only President Snow! Ladies, gentlemen, this is what we've been waiting for. Hold on to your pants and all other items of clothing! Let's cut to what awaits us in the Hundredth Hunger Games!"

That smug grin. Those ever-so-slightly squinted eyes, encircled by a frosting of glazed makeup. Even if the rest of Panem changed, Calla Snow never did. I was torn between shrinking away into my seat and punching the television in an attempt to deliver my fist through the digital space into Calla's mug.

I wasn't alone in that feeling, given the expressions of the two advisors flanking her high above the Capitol on the Presidential Mansion's observatory perch. On one side of her stood Taurus, his lips contorted into a suppressed rebuke, as if he longed to slap her and deliver a lecture about leadership. On the other side stood Cyrus, whose downcast eyes and folded hands made him look like he wanted to be anywhere else in the country than there. The tension between all three of them was palpable, even here hundreds of miles away. It got worse every year, with every advisor meeting that Calla skipped to prance off to a media interview or private entertainment showing. Add in how much Lucrezia seemed to detest the president, and the question arose – how long before somebody burst a blood vessel in the Mansion?

Applause. Applause, applause, and more applause greeted Calla as she soaked it in high above the crowd. After a minute or two, she waved it away and spoke up, "I think you're all excited."

The crowd cheered again, and I was treated to a possibility of who would burst the first blood vessel as Taurus's face reddened with indignation. I could already hear his thoughts now:_ If you want to be respected as a president, then start acting like one. Perhaps I'll mandate that in the next law I write in your name._

"Seventy-five years ago, each district voted for their own tributes," Calla went on. "Every man and woman elected the lucky boy and girl destined to fight for glory. Fifty years ago, we saw a spectacular showing of forty-eight fighters."

Finch scoffed. "That's a little liberal use of the word 'we.'"

"Saw the replay once," Daud said, taking a bite of cheese. "Stupidest idea for an arena ever. It's like they let a five year-old think it up. If making the trees and animals all look like candy wasn't bad enough, why not prevent anyone from drinking water that wasn't from rain or sponsors? I'm sure that'll excite people. Nothing like watching dehydration kick in. It's almost as exciting as my morning piss."

"A quarter-century ago we picked our youngest and brightest to fight," Calla went on.

Ðaud snorted. "Not brightest. Wonderful time that was." When I looked over, he pointed a finger Finch's way. "Her first round as victor. I sort of ignored the kids that year."

Finch fretted. To their credit, I doubted whoever had been Head Gamesmaker back then would've let District 5 win thrice in four years. The fact that Finch won so soon after Daud itself was a miracle.

On screen, Calla let a chant from the crowd die down as she reveled in the attention. My thoughts drifted to her daughter, the future president of Panem likely watching from somewhere inside the Mansion. What sort of future did she as a leader have when her mother whored for attention like this? Cassandra had always struck me as a great blend of spunky and sweet, but how long would that last when the only member of her family to look up to – and the only one left – made a mockery out of the presidency? Calla's grandfather, Coriolanus, had ruled for decades with an iron fist. Creon had tried to uphold the law as a just ruler, for what good that had earned him. Now…this circus.

I empathized with Taurus.

Calla waved a hand-sized yellow card at the crowd, eliciting another round of cheers. "Now for the one-hundredth Hunger Games, the fourth Quarter Quell, and a century of victory and remembrance," she boomed, glancing down at her hands. "As a reminder to the rebels that the strongest among them ushered their dead into war and horror, this year's tributes will be handpicked by each district's victors."

"_That's a fucking cop-out, you plastic whore!_" Daud thundered. "That's barely any different from the first damn Quell!"

Finch swore and pressed her palm to her forehead. "I get it."

I sure didn't. "Why? That's…it's just what he said. It's just voting people in again."

Daud stomped out of the room and banged the front door open as Finch explained, "No. It's not. Think about it, Terra. Victors can't go in again, so this is the closest they can get to an all-star Games. Every victor wants to win, whether for pride or to keep their kids alive like we want. So this year, if we get to choose, we all pick the most capable kids to go in. It means less starving, more fighting, and better fights at that."

"Even better…" Finch trailed off. Her eyes glazed over and she stared at the wall. "Better for them, we look like the bad guys. We are the bad guys in everyone else's point of view. Whoever we have to pick, and we do, their families get people to point the finger at. Not just nebulous people in the Capitol anymore, but people who live down the street. Us."

Oh Gods. It took me a second to wrap my head around what Finch was saying, but it did make sense. I started connecting the dots, all the way from the hovercraft arriving today and dropping troops to Lucrezia's arrival here in District 5 and Taurus's assignment. If someone high up was worried about violence, what better way to quell it temporarily than give the district commoners someone to pin their anger on? That'd give time for the Capitol to root out any problem spots, too, while keeping victors from amassing any sort of community prestige.

From where I sat, it was just another arrow loosed my way. As if digging around the church for trouble and risking blowing my cover wasn't bad enough, now my name could get dragged through the dust even more here in District 5. Going from _you killed our two kids _to _you're working for them_ wasn't a stretch.

Little by little, the district wasn't feeling so welcoming…and that was before Finch, Daud, and I even got the chance to look into the eyes of the two kids we'd nominated to die.


	64. Honesty

_**+ Thanks to FoxfaceFan1 and melliemoo for the reviews! Meetings of the minds in two different districts in this chapter.**_

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"These people are soft. They don't have a fighting spirit, not one that can last more than a few weeks at best! We can't fight on one hand and shy away from any losses on the other!"

Brooke's voice rasped. Her throat hurt, and spit flew from her mouth as she yelled. The Peacekeepers may have burned down the Blue House three years ago, but that didn't stop underground meetings from cropping out in District 4 from time to time. Maybe they weren't full-fledged black market houses anymore, and perhaps these didn't happen often, but when they did, the big players in Panem's westernmost district showed up to speak their minds.

Today's meeting, ostensibly just a dinner among some of the more recognizable people who called District 4 home, had been testy from the start. Maybe it was the building – this old, abandoned, stinky, half-forgotten cannery on the outskirts of Manheim's Gulch had always made Brooke feel overheated and hot-tempered, and the poor attempt at lighting the place up with weak, battery-powered, bare light bulbs and candles didn't help the claustrophobia. Nor did the overcapacity crowd that had shown up, with at least seventy men and women of various ages hunkered around rusting machinery and leaning against splinter-covered support beams to listen, nod, and most often, argue.

However, it wasn't any of that that had done the most to rile up the crowd tonight. The arrival of new hovercraft and the extra Peacekeeper legion that had dropped in the other day had set everyone on edge.

Bandon, a young, thin-shouldered man with a scar running from his right eye to his chin, stood up across from Brooke, shaking his head and scowling. "And what the hell do you have to lose, huh?" he accused, pointing a finger at her. "You don't have no family and you sleep on people's spare bunks! You're not shyin' away from any bloody losses! I got kids –"

"So what's your plan?" asked a grizzled woman camped behind a fouled-up conveyor belt, light flickering off of her weathered face and frayed orange hair. "Talk them to death?"

"Nothin', Isla, that's my plan!" Bandon protested. "Didn't you lose your niece in that fight three years ago? They're ready to stomp us like bugs the moment we do something dumb! Wait it out. Let someone else make a damn move for once, and when they show a little weakness, then act!"

Brooke snarled, "Alarmist tripe."

"I'm captainin' a ship every time you get the offer to go prance about their pretty city!"

"I haven't been there in fifteen damn years and you know that. You gonna start blaming your kids for getting conscripted in their little fighting ring if they get picked this year?"

"If they do, I'll know who the hell picked 'em! You and the Odair shits!"

Next to Brooke, Rio reached out and held her shoulder to keep the clash from escalating beyond a verbal spar. Before she could say anything, however, a short but powerful man stood up at the edge of the meeting. His shoulders made him look almost as broad as he was tall. A freshly scabbed-over gash sliced his thin golden beard in two on the right side of his jaw, another addition to a litany of scars that covered the man's body. A particular notable trophy emblazed his upper left arm, a circular, raised, dark welt with a pock mark at the middle, left behind by a wrestling match with some furious squid years before.

"Got something to say, Seton?" the old woman, Isla, asked.

The brutish man nodded once and glanced over at Bandon. "Guy's got a point," he said, his voice thick and wet. "Lost too many o'mine to the see already, and add losing a cousin in that riot. No doubt those boys in white want to take all of 'em if they can for 'peacekeeping' or whatever excuse they can come up with the moment we fight and back down again."

Seton looked around for a moment, set his jaw, picked up a wooden dinner plate, and hurled it against the wall with a sudden burst of violence. "So the hell of it that I'm going to get to the point of backing down again, or god forbid bending over and letting them take us for who knows how many years to come! This time we don't kill 'em to get them to draw up what's acceptable! We kill 'em to kick them the hell out of our district, out of our homes, out of our lands, and our seas, and our skies, until they don't even dream of setting foot here again for the rest of time! There's no more peace to be kept where I set foot!"

"I want to hear what this man has to say!" he finished, pointing a fat finger at Rio. "He hasn't said a word all night."

Rio stood up, looked around, and walked up to a circular driftwood table at the center of the room and the crowd. He looked down at the flickering flame of a burnt-down candle and pulled out a knife from his belt. It was long, sharp, and bleached white, carved from whale bone like the two Brooke carried. Rio turned it over in his hands, once, twice, before tossing it onto the center of the table.

"Fight," was all he said.

Seton laughed, charged up to the table, and tossed a knife of his own onto it. His was short, serrated near the hilt, and angry-looking, the type that would cut erratically and leave a messy wound. "We fight!"

Brooke stood and lobbed one of her knives towards the table. It landed tip-first, quivering in the wood next to the other blades. "Let's fight."

Bandon frowned. He folded his arms, shrugged, pulled out a knife, and tossed it with the others. "Fight."

"Fight!" shouted someone in the crowd. Another knife joined the pile. "Fight!"

Then another. Then another.

**/ / / / /**

Only the Quarter Quell's ridiculous twist could make meeting with Pyre York refreshing. It wasn't picking kids to die, at least.

True to his word, the pastor had flagged me down following a church service a week after the Quell announcement. "I see your face so often nowadays, Misty," he'd said. "I'd like to show you something. Privately, between us."

I didn't know what to expect, but I'd been in too much of a slump since the Quell to reject his offer. Being Terra Pike meant playing judge and most likely executioner to one boy and girl come the summer. Being myself meant facing the prospect of incurring the district's wrath if – when – two kids I'd hand-picked to die did just that in the arena. Frankly, playing Misty Saban and keeping up with Taurus and Lucrezia's investigation was welcoming in comparison.

A yellow half-moon topped the canyon walls as I trudged deep down the ravine away from the dam and the city center, towards the outskirts of the urban area. Hewn entrances in the dark rock walls opened up here and there, glowing with hazy pale light from the halls of Redhammer within. It didn't surprise me that Pyre wanted to meet at a tavern out here. Most of the congregation I ever saw in the church had the look of Redhammer denizens, with their plainer clothes, weathered faces, and vacant eyes. Tough lives made for ardent believers. Merchant girl Terra Pike had no place out here as I'd learned the last time Blaze had led me around Redhammer, but Misty belonged as much as anyone else.

The Dirty Ginger was a dump even by dump's standards. Calling it a tavern did a disservice to my father's, now Flint's, establishment: The run-down, aluminum siding-walled shack built into the rock walls outside of Redhammer looked as if it would fall apart at the first strong breeze coming down the canyon. A drunk stumbled past me as I approached the dingy joint, bellowing out the lyrics to "Beth and the Bawdy Bulldog" while scratching his crotch as another patron vomited up an ocean of alcohol out in front of the wooden patio. A squad of Peacekeepers looked on from fifty feet away, content to watch intoxicated men make mockeries of themselves under the night sky. Just the smell of stale beer and gastric distress took my thoughts to angry, late-night drinking sessions with Daud or with the other victors in the Capitol.

Pyre loitered outside the front door, chatting with a staggering woman clutching a glass and looking anything but priestly. I guessed this was bringing religion to the masses.

He waved me down as I drew close. "Misty," he said, excusing himself from the drunk woman. "I hope I'm not dragging you out too far. You said you lived around Redhammer."

"I do," I said with a shrug, sticking to my cover story. "Don't you…like, pray at this hour, or something?"

"Hard to trust someone who prays all the time, don't you think?" he said. "I'm sure you can understand that part of our church and our belief is creating a community. I know you've involved yourself in it. Even a dive such as this can bring people together. Only together we have the power to fight for the Light, after all."

He motioned towards a wide gap in the canyon wall that led into a winding tunnel, curving away towards the left into the hazy interior of Redhammer. "I was meaning to show you something. You've been getting to know the church considerably for one new to belief, so I thought you might want to see more. I live near here."

"You don't just live in the church?"

"I'm not a monk, Misty. I'm a common man like you or any of these patrons. It's not a sin to own property or indulge every now and then. Not as long as we know what to stand up for. Come. Take a walk with me."

Flickering milky lights. Humming exposed wires. Rough rocky halls wide enough for four people at the max. Redhammer wasn't for people looking for creature comforts. This place always struck me as strange being in District 5, one of Panem's wealthier districts. _Then again, if the Capitol can have Auburn's Belly, then we can have this._

"There've been a lot of soldiers showing up lately," Pyre said as we walked up a shallow incline, pushing past a gaggle of women chatting in the middle of the passage. "What do you make of that?"

I shrugged. Hells, I didn't know what to make of that even considering what I actually knew about the Capitol. "Training, maybe. Or whatever they do."

"That's a weak guess," he said. "Do they still teach a little science in the school?"

"A little."

"The body produces an immune response to any infection. So a disease sets in, the body produces and sends out cells to fight as a reaction. Panem's a large place. Neither of us can know what's going on around the country when we've lived in District 5 our whole lives, right?"

I looked down at my feet. That didn't sound very priestly at all.

The passage winded upwards, past hovels carved into the rock. "Are you still eligible for the Games this year?" asked Pyre, changing subjects.

I shook my head. "I'll be nineteen two weeks before the Reaping."

"Ah, out-aging it. That's good. The fates of two young people aren't in the hands of random chance this year, after all. Do you make anything of the Quell's announcement?"

This was probing too close to home. I shook my head again, sticking my hands in my pockets and trudging along without a word. "For the best," Pyre said. "I'm sure our victors will make fair choices. I'm sure you've seen Daud Mosely in the pews. I've never had the chance to talk to him personally, but he seems an honest man. A believer, at least. As for the two women who've won in our district, well, we have to trust in faith that they'll come to a good decision."

After two or three quiet minutes of walking, Pyre led me to a door in the rock. It was actual wood, rather than the cheap aluminum that made most of the doors in Redhammer, and when he opened it, I stepped into a much nicer room than I'd pictured. We'd come up higher than I'd thought: A small window on the far side of the room looked out over the canyon maybe half way up the wall. Milky moonlight poured in through the freshly cleaned glass, casting shadows behind spartan furniture handmade from bits and pieces of scavenged wood. A plain, circular red rug added color to the place in the middle of the room, lying before a small altar topped with figurines of the church's three gods of light. Candles burned all along the walls.

"It's not much," Pyre admitted. "Any place where one can rest is a good place, though. Wait here. I have an adjoining room where I keep personal effects. What I want to show you's somewhat large. I'll need to go drag it out."

Fair enough. I idled as Pyre pushed open a side door past the altar and tromped off into the other room. It _was_ a nice place by Redhammer's standards. It wasn't the Victor's Village, sure, but the priest took care of his home. I had the feeling that some of the donations he received every church day might have gone into furnishing the place, but probably not enough that Xanthia and Lucrezia would be interested.

_Creak_. Someone walked about outside in the passage. I didn't have time to wonder just who, however, as Pyre stepped back into the room, dragging a large, gunmetal gray create with him.

"Here we are," he said, setting it down on the rug and popping open a pair of metal latches to spring free the crate's lid. "I think this is something you might be very familiar with, Misty. Give it a look. Tell me what you see."

I stepped forward and took a peek. Whatever I expected – idols, maybe, religious tomes, artifacts, historical documents, things from the Capitol, whatever – I didn't find them. Instead, I found the last thing I figured a preacher would have.

A stark white suit of armor lay at the bottom of the crate, light glinting off its ceramic plate. A white helmet lay neatly in a corner of the crate next to it, its black visor spotless. I recognized it immediately – Peacekeeper equipment, and not just any run of the mill uniform. Black bands circled the shoulders of the armor's vest. Whoever had worn this had been high-ranking indeed.

"Did you steal this or something?" I forced a laugh, my voice almost breaking. This didn't feel right at all. "I dunno why I'd be familiar with it, though."

Pyre shook his head, a sly smile creeping across his lips. "No, no theft. That's not my crime. My crime's desertion. That armor's mine." I backpedaled as he continued, "I'm sure you're familiar with the punishment for that in the Capitol. After all, you're there once a year, every summer."

Heat flashed across my face as the door to the passage opened up. In strolled the man from the church, the one who'd laid claim to no name, the lighter of candles and repairer of church scaffolding who'd first told me about the youth group. He leaned against the wall as the door shut behind him, looking far less like some caught-up follower of the faith and much more like a danger.

"You know Valens," said Pyre, pointing towards the new arrival. "He's on active duty here in District 5. Like me, he found more meaning in what's not so easily seen in this world as opposed to our daily drudgery. Also like me, he can see through a good disguise. He told me he'd seen you snooping around at the church one night, Terra. I thought I'd play along. After all, the whole time I've been preaching, I'd never seen you once in the pews. There wouldn't be a need for a disguise if you'd just had a crisis of faith, so…"

I backed up to the wall, pressing my back to it and flicking my gaze between the two. If they were Peacekeepers – and I had no reason to doubt that, given the evidence in front of me – I had no chance of escaping here. The big man, Valens, could flatten me all by himself, let alone any hidden feats Pyre had up his sleeve. "What do you want?" I breathed.

Pyre shrugged. "It's an interesting game we're playing. We might as well keep playing it. I assume you're not here in any of this on your own volition."

"N – no. Sort of."

"Mm. Someone probably recruited you. It doesn't matter who. It's no surprise to me. I hid for a few years here before you would have ever know who I was, making contacts, learning, believing in something more than what the earth could provide. By the time I came out into the open again, your handlers couldn't just arrest me. It'd provoke too much backlash, riots even. Letting desertion slide, on the other hand? Not their style. So, here we are. You, recruited into some game ever since winning another, and Valens and I, soldiers of the Darkness who saw the Light. Between whoever tasked you with this job in the Capitol and who you are in the district, where do you put your faith, Terra?"

I froze. Maybe if I'd been stronger or more confident in the ruse I could have denied it all, called Pyre crazy, dismissed his allegations as some wild guesswork while downplaying any connection to the Hunger Games. He'd dropped it all so suddenly, however, a coordinated strike that he'd clearly been planning for some time. If this Valens guy had really recognized me through the makeup and wig and contacts back when I first met him in the church that night, then they'd had the advantage all this time.

"I can see enough surprise on your face to tell me the facts, so answer me this," Pyre said as I struggled to reply. "Between me and whoever sent you to spy on me, who's given you the truth? I guarantee whoever you're working for, they know exactly who I am."

Valens chuckled. "Bein' played like a drum, pretty flower."

Pyre motioned for Valens to move away from the door. "I think you know how to find me by now. I'm being honest with you, Terra. When you're ready to do the same, we can talk. I think there's a lot you might like to find out about. Until then, go ahead and go. Whoever's sending you about on little jobs for the Capitol, think about how honest they're being with you, and whether that's worth trusting."

I wouldn't pass up an opportunity. My head spinning, I dashed out of the room, looking back to see Valens's eyes staring me down as I hurried away from Pyre's home.


	65. The Schemers

_**+ Huge thanks for all the reviews last chapter! Getting closer to a rendezvous with the Capitol once more, and District 4's impending showdown gets a little more personal.**_

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"Hey, this is promising. This guy, Steffon Reuven – he's eighteen, six-two, dad's a grocer so he's well-fed and pretty big compared to most guys that age."

Finch stared down at the holographic projector a Capitol administrator had given us, reviewing files of children in District 5. I glanced over at his notes, frowning, and adding, "He's also got six siblings and a big family."

"Well, that's good. He's probably quarreled with them growing up. That's almost fighting experience."

Daud snorted and looked away from his spot on a couch in Finch's living room. We'd been at this several days now, sorting through names and children and statistics, trying to figure out just who we could swallow condemning to death. We weren't arguing as much anymore, but now every name and every face felt like dropping another lead weight down into my stomach.

I stomped my foot at Finch's suggestion. "It also means he has a lot of people who're going to miss him."

"Terra, tell me you've gotten used to that by now. We don't actually have to watch some scrawny kid get picked. We can take someone with a chance. Family or no family, it's the best chance of taking one of ours back home."

Daud looked amused as I rejected Finch's suggestion and we went back to sifting through files. _Sort by age, sort by residence location, sort by school records, sort by criminal record, sort by height, weight, and sex. _Fanning through the Capitol's database on the district made me feel like everyone here was just a series of numbers put together on an electronic drawing board.

Unfortunately, picking someone with a chance in the Games meant eschewing humanity in favor of just those numbers.

"This girl is tops of her school class," I said, opening a file and checking through the data. Philippa Rinde had a cute face and pretty, short-cropped hair that could at least make a scene on the screen, and her grades and schoolwork were nothing to scoff at. "She only has one sibling, and he's a lot older and already has a family. Both parents though."

Finch glanced over. "She's twelve."

"Oh. Didn't see that."

I sighed and closed Philippa's file. Every potential tribute had a drawback. _Too many family members. Too young. Too small and weak. _Every direction I looked shined a face that would show up in the arena sky some night during the Hunger Games as Cicero and Caesar marked the dead.

Daud, who hadn't so much as browed a single file since we began, got up from his seat. "You both are trying too hard and playing dumb," he rumbled, lurching towards the projector and flicking his hand across the images. "Every schmuck can find some warrior or pretty face or big brain, and that's what every other damn district's going to do."

"None of that crap matters," said Daud, running a finger along a data column. "Just one thing."

_Immediate family members – zero_.

"Dig through all the community home castoffs and orphans," he said, plopping down on his seat again and picking his drink back up.

"That's a stupid idea," Finch said, moving to reset the files.

Daud stopped her: "It's a better idea than either of you have. Everyone else sends in their best, then we're no better off than most years – and probably worse off, because we have losers like 11 and 12 actually competing for once. Not to mention that those whores in 1 probably rig the whole damn thing, since, the horror, they went a whole year without winning. I guarantee you some of those orphans just want to go to sleep and not wake up. Might as well make some kid's wish come true and hurt the least number of people if we'll lose anyway."

Finch started to protest, but I felt my resolve give way. I thought of Glenn: My partner way back in my Games had wanted nothing more than to disappear off the face of the world, arena or no arena. In a cruel way, the Reaping had spared some other family and some other boy the pain of loss. Glenn's death had done something good.

Hm.

"Why don't we just try looking?" I offered up, my peep barely making it through Daud and Finch's escalating argument.

Daud cut her off with a hand and a raised eyebrow, nodding in my direction and grinning with smug satisfaction. "You're spraining your brain muscles when you're overthinking," he said as Finch turned her back on him.

She rolled her eyes. "Strain. You strain a muscle, you don't sprain it."

We dug through the list of orphans and the kids in District 5's community homes, a tiny sample compared to all the children between twelve and eighteen here in the desert. Given stories I'd heard from Phoebe, Haymitch, and others, I wagered some of the other districts had a much larger proportion of their kids living without parents than we did.

That didn't stop Finch from grumbling as we sifted through the database, snarking now and then with a, "No better way to tell a beaten-down kid to kill themselves than picking them for the Games." As she frowned and pushed on, I realized something: Daud had hinted and revealed bits of his past, but Finch had spent so much time mentoring me and trying to teach me things that I'd never learned much beyond her victory in the 74th Games.

I'd have to cajole her into some stories. Now I'd never be able to let that thought go without closure otherwise

After an hour of digging through more names and faces and children, I stumbled across Quinn Cidaris. He was thin, lanky, and had a long, dour face that would need extra care from Rhea and the stylists, but he was tall, originally from the community home, and, according to notes from the Capitol attendants who observed the orphanages from time to time, had gotten along well with the other orphans while living there, if doing so while largely keeping his head down. Being eighteen, he'd moved out two years prior to public housing in Redhammer and worked in the geothermal power plants. _Diligent_, read a work report. _Fits in well. Reserved, but productive. No recorded disciplinary action. _

Maybe he wouldn't win a hand-to-hand fight with the biggest brute from District 2, but if he could think on his feet and make friends in the Games, that was something we could work with.

Finch spoke up before I could: "I've got a girl who might work for us."

She'd really gone with Daud's idea. From the furthest outlying orphanage in town, Summer Wylie was a short, skinny fifteen-almost-sixteen year-old who looked like she'd struggled for years to keep her stomach from growling. She wasn't malnourished or withered like some tributes I'd seen from Districts 12 and 11, but I wouldn't have put her in a close-quarters fight with any competitive tribute in recent memory. Her black hair frayed in wiry strands that ran past her shoulder, and her brown eyes looked tired and worn. Her administrative profile was a mixed bag: _Top of academic class. Difficulty with peers of same age, although responds well to authority and elder figures. Avoidant and cynical. _

No siblings. Orphan. No extended family. At least she fit one part of the bill and had a brain, if not much else. I'd led Daud and Finch handle her in the Games.

After another hour of arguing over our two unfortunate selectees, I tromped out of Finch's house and down the street running the length of the Victor's Village in a huff. I could only take so much of _Well, there'll be different rules, Terra. You'll understand later_ and _Hells, if they bomb, at least we can enjoy ourselves_ before my nerves frazzled. Finch's paternalism and Daud's premature surrender on this year's Games built up a thundercloud inside me that threatened to burst from my lungs.

Looking for a fight to blow off steam, I set off for the downtown to do something stupid.

Xanthia scowled over the top of a mound of papers as I strolled into her office. I hadn't mentioned my meeting with Pyre and the Peacekeeper, Valens, to neither her nor Lucrezia – in fact, I hadn't even seen either of them since then. While I had no doubt Lucrezia knew just who Pyre had been and had hid that from me from the start, I wasn't so sure about Xanthia's knowledge. She was just a bureaucrat, even if a smart one willing to do more than the likely boring job required.

"Shouldn't you be off electing kids to die?" she snorted as I plopped down in a seat without asking. "You know what your district and most of the others did back in the first Quell? Picked a bunch of farts no one liked to die. That's democracy in action. As long as someone we don't like gets shat on, you have our vote! Hilarious hearing drunk idiots banter about governance at bars late at night."

"Why are you even at bars?"

She sneered and shoved the pile of papers against the wall. "God, are you my mother? A woman can't drink around this dust bowl? What do you want? I'm already pissed off that no one here can use a god damn computer. Sorting through this pile of crap is a drag."

"I talked with Pyre," I said, looking down and twirling a finger through my hair. The cramped, hot office reeked of stale booze and cheap perfume. I supposed if Capitolians weren't in the Capitol, they didn't have to keep up appearances.

"Great. Have you learned why these whatever gods made humans if ninety-five percent of them are idiots?"

I eyed her with caution. "Does Lucrezia ever tell you much about this when you talk?"

"Terra, hurry up and get to the point before I get an ulcer."

"Pyre's a Peacekeeper. Did you know that all this time?"

She rolled her eyes. "Really? Has Calla named him her successor, too?"

"It's not some stupid idea!" I protested, leaning forward over her desk and knocking a few papers to the floor with my elbow. "He showed me himself! He has a place in Redhammer, and he has a crate with Peacekeeper armor in it! And not just usual armor, it's the serious type. The Black Rings. Little black bands around the shoulder. I've never even seen that once here in District 5! So either he killed a guy or stole it, and probably not here, or I'm telling the truth."

"Total crap. Even if you're not shitting me, which you probably are, there's this thing called a black market. Anyone could get anything here if they have money, and I don't know if you're aware, but being a key social figure means you probably have all the money you'll ever need."

"Why the hells would he buy Peacekeeper armor?"

"You know, it's really weird when you people say 'the _hells_' rather than the singular. Like you've all internalized this polytheism bull. And I don't know, maybe he's giving it to people to blend in. Get info on the Peacekeepers by camouflaging themselves. Kind of like, say, you've been doing for the past several months, if that wasn't apparent?"

I sighed. "Then fine. If you're still guessing, then either I'm right, or you have Pyre and whoever else pretending to be Peacekeepers and getting away with it. Either way it's something serious going on."

"That's even if you didn't just make this up," Xanthia said, clenching her jaw in annoyance. "What? You what me to tell Lucrezia to march in the whole army because a nineteen year-old thinks some preacher's robe or some shit was a Peacekeeper uniform?"

"Go see for yourself! Go sneak into where he lives some day and snoop around!"

"Maybe I will, on my _own_ time, and without you. Unlike Pyre, who can't keep his big mouth shut if you're not lying to me, I'm not about to go letting a teenager in on my day-to-day life, let alone my personal history or god forbid my future."

I stopped before I could mutter a snarky reply. _God forbid my future_. Whatever that meant. It almost sounded as if Xanthia was more frustrated with Pyre than she was with Lucrezia or me.

"If you're having sneaking suspicions about Lucrezia's trustworthiness," Xanthia snorted, "join the club. She's a _spymaster_. It's her job to vomit anything but the truth, and if you don't think she has ulterior motives, then good god. Nobody's dumb enough to spill all their secrets. Obviously Lucrezia hasn't told you or me everything, and if you think that's the key to success in intrigue, then maybe you should go find some other way to kill your boredom. Killing small animals, maybe, or abusing drugs. Now get out of here and back to your victor business. I have enough going on without you eagerly running up to spill some new revelation."

**/ / / / /**

The grassy hills overlooking District 4's Victor's Village gave a clear view of the bay. Mid-afternoon sun sparkled off the deep blue water, the morning fog long since dissipated in the warm late spring air. The great white and red lighthouse loomed large miles in the distance, a stony sentinel overlooking the channel leading in to the bay and District 4's ports. Only small boats lingered in the waters off of the harbor district at this hour. The trawlers and heavy fishing boats still patrolled far off to sea, several hours away from heading home with a full catch of the ocean's bounty. Brown, rocky mounts jutted up from the hilly landscape, and to the east, a great green and yellow plain stretched on between a trio of distant peaks.

Brooke kicked her feet over a cliff on the hillside, scattering pebbles down the rock face. The Peacekeepers didn't bother coming around out here. They looked for dissidents in the downtown, around Manheim's Gulch, and anywhere else where people condensed in droves. Out here by the Village, where civilization thinned out and many more jackrabbits called the place home than people did? There was no point wasting time out here.

She heard her guest's footsteps on the rocks behind her. Brooke had had Wade slip him a note a day before, telling him to meet her out here for a chat. Unlike his parents, Drake Odair still had sympathy for Brooke after all those days and weeks she'd spent looking after him in his early childhood when the Capitol had called on Finnick and Annie for this or that.

Drake didn't sit down next to her. He scuffled his feet and muttered, "What'd you want to meet for?"

Brooke pitched a rock off the cliff. "Friends can't just talk?"

"I mean, I'm pretty sure the Peacekeepers want you. What'd you even do to piss them off? Mom keeps thinking you're going to draw them home."

Brooke laughed. "Don't worry about it. How is your mom?"

"Really? That's what you drag me out here for?"

"Jeez, Drake. Is it 'cuz the Games are a few weeks away? Is that why you're uptight?"

He scoffed and stuck his hands on his hips, looking away off towards the sea. Brooke feigned concern and added, "Hey, I get it. Every other year the academy sends in the kids, but this year it's on you guys. A couple people I know around the Gulch were talking and pinning blame on your dad…it's not really fair. I mean, it's not his fault or your fault you have to pick the tributes this year."

"Yeah, you were helpful with that."

"Come on. I have a lot of friends with kids. If I'd just smiled and gone along with the Capitol's plan and said, hey, these kids have to die, sorry suckers! What would I be?"

"Like the rest of us?"

She stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. Drake recoiled instantly, pulling away from her and scowling. "You can tell me things, alright? I can figure out when something's eating at you. You don't have to play tough guy all the time."

"Piss off, Brooke. I'm out."

"Drake, don't be like that. We've known each other forever. We're both victors. It's not just picking the kids, huh?"

He folded his arms and smoldered, but Brooke knew she was digging away at his fears. Drake put on a good façade – the whole I'm invincible, the golden boy, yadda yadda thing – but he was human, just like any other victor. Just like both his parents. Brooke knew where to push humans to persuade them to see her way.

She folded her hands, bit her lower lip, and said with a voice just above a whisper, "They make you do things there, huh? In the Capitol? Even though it's all the new order and whatnot?"

Drake looked at her with a murderous expression and turned to walk away. Brooke followed right on his heels: "You wonder if they make the other kids do things, too? What are their names – Phoebe, Quintus, Terra, whoever else I missed? It's just the same shit over and over with a new label and a new Snow as president. See, this is why I'm not having kids ever."

"Seriously, Brooke, _screw off_. I'm going to put my goddamn fist through your face."

"I mean, your mom and dad are good people. They wouldn't want that for you for the rest of your life. So let's say you find a nice girl, you settle down, have a kid or two of your own. Hell, if Finnick and Annie's kid is made to be a tribute, what do you think your kids are going to do? And if they aren't as good fighters as you are…hell, even if they are, getting made to _do things_ for their whole adult lives –"

Drake whirled, balled his fists, and exploded, "What the hell do you want? Did you do this to my mom, too? 'Cuz if so, back the hell off."

Brooke smiled and looked away. "Guys are so touchy. Alright, you can't talk about it. It hurts your pride or whatever. Just, when you have to go to the Capitol again in a couple weeks here, think about it, alright? You have these kids who you and the others picked this year to fight, and you want them to win, but do you _really_? Knowing what's coming? And what's coming for you, or your future…just think about it Drake. This whole system's just a big shit sandwich. If there's no point to thinking about your future because it's crap, and your kids will almost certainly be Reaped, and you're nothing more than a tool to be waved around by some pretty boys strutting about their pretty city off in the mountains, well, that sucks. Why bother doing all that? Look at me. I'm not."

He waved her off, turned around, and said over his shoulder, "Cool. Go have fun doing whatever you do these days."

"I intend to," she said with a smile.


	66. Pieces in Play

_**+ Thanks again for the reviews, FoxfaceFan1 and melliemoo! It's that wonderful time again, Terra begins to pick sides, and things continue to go down around District 13.**_

**/ / / / /**

"Two of them behind those trees."

Suleiman shook his head as he watched the District 13 guards through the scope of his rifle. "Four men in their patrols. Every time."

A few steps to the side, Arrian leaned on a tree, squinting in the morning sun and watching as two gray-armored soldiers picked through the overgrown wilderness to the west of District 13's marshes. They weren't bulky or particularly soldier-y, but the guards carried high-powered rifles that could make short work of any probing Capitol spy – or two rabble-rousers, in the case of Suleiman and Arrian.

"They're bait, then," said Suleiman's protégé. Arrian hissed the words through gritted teeth. He had no love for these people. They were the cowards, after all. Worse than the Capitol, worse than the districts. "They're looking for yesterday's patrol." For good reason, Arrian thought. Yesterday's patrol had been transformed from four men into many bits of men strewn throughout a particularly dense grove in the woods.

Suleiman handed Arrian his rifle. "Our friend might have found the other two by now. If not, keep an eye out for them while I go have a talk.

Arrian watched his mentor pull out a pistol as he disappeared into a thicket. That gun, always that gun. Ashen, _old_-looking, like some sort of relic. It wasn't any modern Capitol pistol with any holographic sight or recoil reducer, but Arrian had seen it enough times in action to respect Suleiman's sidearm. Envy it, even.

He wasn't here to admire his mentor's gun, however. District 13's citizens defended their home well, so attacking it meant picking away at its defenses – patrol by patrol, man by man. Suleiman guarded his reasons for all this, and the reasons of those who he listened to, but Arrian knew better than to probe. Suleiman had given him all this already, and a street boy from Auburn's Belly couldn't ask much more than to help accomplish something significant, even if that significance still evaded him.

_Hao!_

Suleiman's gun howled. The left guard dropped, his armor useless against the high-power bullet. His companion dropped immediately, rolling behind a tree and fumbling for his belt. _To the left!_ Arrian spotted the missing other two guards sprinting out of the woods at the mournful cry of Suleiman's pistol, their own weapons at the ready. The foliage shook as one fired – _crack!_ The bullet zipped through the underbrush, a wild shot far wide of either Suleiman or his protégé. Arrian trained his scope on the man's chest just in time to watch him die.

The forest exploded as a giant mutt roared out of the tree line, snatching Arrian's target in its canine jaws and hurling the guard twenty yards headfirst into a tree trunk. The beast was a giant, slender yet muscular, halfway between a nine foot long hyena and a greyhound missing the fur. Angry, fleshy red skin covered it from its burly head down to its wiry ankles, with long, wedged, ripping claws jutting out at odd angles from its feet. Tiny black eyes dotted its boulder of a head, far too small for the maw-like mouth that snarled at the other guard as he dived out of the way of the beast's swiping paw.

Knowing what awaited the doomed soldier, Arrian wheeled back on the original survivor. The soldier had taken cover behind a tangled mess a roots. He held a finger to his helmet, speaking to someone back in the district, Arrian assumed. Good. Let them come find the carnage a little too late to help.

After pausing for a moment, Arrian sucked in his breath, aimed, and fired.

_Crack!_

His rifle butt pounded his shoulder. Downrange, the district guard shuddered and slumped down. His hands wriggled and his legs kicked, but Arrian knew better than to take another shot. Post-mortem spasms. Nothing more. A perfect shot.

He turned back to see the mutt blast apart a sapling, sending the last remaining soldier from the district running for new cover. He had almost reached a pair of thick oaks when Arrian fired. The guard stumbled right as the bullet struck where he would've been, and the whizzing bullet spooked him into stepping back. As he did, the mutt recovered and lunged.

The guard couldn't so much as take a step before the mutt pinned him to the ground with one paw. Growling and spraying spittle and mucous everywhere, the mutt clenched its jaws around the panicked soldier's torso, giving one powerful pull and dividing the unfortunate man in two. Blood splashed the forest floor.

Suleiman grabbed Arrian as he ran past. "We should leave before they send a search party," Arrian breathed as he watched the mutt lumber off into the forest, savoring its prize. "Let them find it."

"Good," said Suleiman. "They can come out in greater force and look around all they want. We'll give them a reprieve for now."

Arrian jogged after him, brushing past foliage and twigs deeper into the woods. "What do we do in the meantime?"

"You figure that out. And take care of our pets," Suleiman answered, nodding in the direction of where the mutt loped off. "Their master wants a word with me in the Capitol. And I have other business to take care of there, as well."

"You're leaving?"

"For now. You have enough of a grasp on all this to keep harassing the district," Suleiman said. "I'll be gone for some time. Maybe a month."

Suleiman stopped when the two reached a forest pool. He reached down into the water, splashing a handful of it across his face to wash out the dirt. His pale skin, almost blue in the green light of the woods, stood out as alien to Arrian in this place. Suleiman looked up at his protégé, clenched his brow, and said, "Prove me right about trusting you with this. You've done good work for years now. More and more, I'll need you to make some decisions on your own now. I have places to be. Others to speak with."

Arrian nodded and smiled. Pride. That's what he felt. He could keep an eye on District 13. More than an eye, even. These people were the enemy, and he knew what to do with enemies.

If it made Suleiman proud of him, all the better.

**/ / / / /**

"Xanthia tells me you and Pyre had a chat."

I hunched over in my chair in my dining room as Lucrezia folded her arms and crossed her legs. I didn't want her here, especially not today of all days, but it wasn't as if I could tell her no. "Yeah."

"And? She didn't give me details."

I folded my fingers in my lap and hesitated. "And I think he suspects something. He's cagey and doesn't tell me much interesting."

"And what does he tell you at all?"

"He keeps trying to convert me into weirder beliefs and stuff," I lied, thinking on my feet. I very well couldn't tell Lucrezia, _Hey, there's no way in hell you don't know who he used to be. So why don't you tell me what's up?_ Besides, my talk with Xanthia convinced me that Lucrezia hadn't kept her in the loop, either. Playing the game for now made more sense than throwing down the gauntlet before I had any real cards in my hand. "Maybe he wants to win over victors or something."

Lucrezia looked annoyed. "If you keep allowing him to get the upper hand, you'll never learn anything useful even if you've cultivated a relationship and convinced him you're faithful. You need to grow a backbone."

She got up and eyed the door. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"I have to be in the Capitol later today. You will be there tomorrow. Neither of us have a chance to pursue this until this Quarter Quell madness is over with. You haven't gotten far with Pyre at all, but he's not making any sudden movements. We can return to this once we return from the idiocy of the Games."

She turned to leave, thought better of it, and said over her shoulder, "I hope you know enough by now to keep quiet about anything going on here should Taurus, Calla, or the others continue bringing you around for council meetings."

What? "Taurus was the one who made me do all this. I think he knows."

"Of course he knows. But I'd rather some of the others not know of our business. That woman who calls herself president in particular."

I don't know what compelled me to speak, whether it was all the months working with Lucrezia and Xanthia giving me the confidence to open my mouth or something else, but I blurted out, "Why is Calla even president when you and the others can't stand her and do most of the work?"

"She can call herself a goddess and still not be in charge of anything," Lucrezia scoffed. "Please, use a little observation for once. You have eyes. We both know it's better that she continues thinking being president means just playing dress-up and attending parties."

She let the door slam behind her as she left. I wanted to ask more questions, but now wasn't the time. Divisions were forming in the council, frustrations boiling over since Creon's death and the three years of Calla's leadership, if her complete abandonment of any responsibility of the presidency but embracing of the status and fame that came with it could be called such. Xanthia, for what it was worth, had apparently kept my revelation a secret. If so, a lot of pieces were in play – and I would need more than a few questions and much more time to figure everything out.

That was for another day, however. Today, I had only one job – show up to the Hall of Justice in the afternoon for the Reaping.

"Reaping." Ha. I wondered what the crowd would be like in the square. Would the Peacekeepers even pile all the children in and around the buildings, force everyone to stand on ceremony even though Finch, Daud, and I had chosen the unlucky two long beforehand? What a horrible drama. Would they jeer at us, or hold their anger in with polite, customary applause?

I suppose it made for good television.

Finch came to get me early in the afternoon. "Have you been watching?" she said, forgoing any sort of greeting. "7 went with the same strategy we did this morning and picked two kids I don't think have much fight in them, but 11, 10, 8, different story. Real big and strong boys, tough, wiry, pretty girls who look like they can run rings around anyone and get sponsors."

"I guess it had to happen," I said with some resignation.

"Well, we're not showing our two the Reaping this year on the train," Finch said. Before I had the chance to add the obligatory, _When do we ever? _she continued, "Daud already left for the Justice Hall. Let's go."

"You don't want me to get changed or anything first?"

She fretted and twisted the hem of her shirt between her fingers. "I talked with Elan when he showed up earlier. They're doing something different. Don't bother getting dressed up."

"Why?"

"You'll find out. Come on."

Finch led me away from the main thoroughfare leading from the Victor's Village to the downtown, instead taking me off the dusty streets and paths and through the brush and scrub that dotted the edge of the canyon, where the towering rock walls joined the sandy floor. She looked around from time to time as if expecting unwelcome company.

"Is someone following us?" I asked, feeling a shot of nerves. She was making my edgy.

She shook her head. "No. It's just that I don't think a lot of people are happy with this year's arrangement."

_Well, duh_. Being the ones to pick who would die this year didn't make me feel like I'd be welcomed with open arms out in the square today. Finch, however, didn't lead me towards the square. Once the downtown came into view around a canyon bend and I spotted dozens of children heading towards the Justice Hall and adults filing into the streets to get a clear view of the screens set up around the merchant quarter, Finch led me away towards the cargo and personnel elevators that rose up to the train station.

"Um – we're not going to the square?" I asked.

She shook her head. "We're watching the Reaping from the train this year."

"What? Why?" The Peacekeepers awaiting us at the elevators made me feel more nervous. "Finch?"

"They're just making sure we got here fine," she said, waving them off. "Come on."

Chrome. Crystal. Silver. Velvet. The inside of the Capitol trains never changed, but every year I felt both more at home and more anxious every time I dropped into this pool of luxury. Daud propped his feet up on a shiny metal table while knocking back a drink – his second, if the empty bottle on the table was anything to go by – but his face didn't show any sign of relaxation. His eyes flicked around, worried, annoyed, _something_, as he watched a television in the train's lounge car.

"Some of these little shits are literate," Daud grumbled as Finch closed the train door behind us, shutting out the dry heat of the afternoon. "Looks like they're taking most of it out on you, Finch."

He nodded to the television screen before I had a chance to ask what he meant. Live footage from one of the surrounding streets near Redhammer played, clearly not something on any publicly-broadcast channel given the content. Five men pitched rocks at a rugged, filled cloth sack effigy of a woman, with loose, red-dyed straw making up the dummy's hair and painted-on freckles dotting its face. A fire licked at the effigy's bottom and stumpy stick legs. One of the men, feeling particularly lewd, jabbed a broomstick at the effigy's privates.

_Confederate_, read a scrawled-on wooden sign hung around the effigy's neck.

"Think it's the hair," Daud added as one of the men knocked off one of the dummy's stick arms with a well-thrown rock. "Don't know many red-haired women myself around here. You stand out a bit."

"Why are they blaming us?" I protested upon seeing Finch's troubled look. "We were just told to pick kids. We didn't decide to do that."

Daud rolled his eyes as if it were obvious. "Look at the sign."

"'Confederate.' How's what we do any different than everyone who goes to work on the power plants every day to make sure the lights are on in the Capitol? It's just a job. They're just as much 'collaborating' as we are."

"Look at it their way," Finch murmured, her brow still creased with stress. "They see us with money and trotting around in the Capitol while we pick kids to die. It's not right, but they don't know what goes into it. You can't blame them."

"Maybe we should have picked their kids, then," I groused.

Finch scowled and yanked me off to the side of the lounge car. "Terra, don't talk like that. Come on."

"Finch, you're defending these – these drunken inbreds who'd probably shank you if they saw you right now!"

"They're mad, they're worked up, and imagine if you had a son or daughter who might be picked to die by the very people the Capitol touts as victors from your district?

"Well, I wouldn't do _that_!"

"Those are extremists. Nobody's going to hurt us or anything when we're back. Today's a bad day. It's the Reaping. Use your brain."

Daud cleared his thought. "Elan's up. Back to the tv."

Finch and I glared at each other for a moment before I backed down and sulked off to a chair on the far side of the car. Why did she even bother defending these people? Finch sounded so confident in the goodness of these _extremists_, but I'd seen enough of Pyre and Valens and the other churchgoers to have my doubts about the nature of some of the people who called District 5 home. All it took to gather a lynch mob was one charismatic leader, and Finch, Daud, and I made as good targets for the public ire as anyone else. Better targets than most, even. The Peacekeepers didn't need to do anything about some idiots burning an effigy of a victor. Who cares what happened to someone who had won the Hunger Games in the past?

Elan had just finished up his usual speech by the time I dug myself out of my bitter, smoking thoughts. Like every year, children packed the town square from storefront to storefront, the age divisions barely even decipherable with the sheer mass of kids packed in the small area. Rather than the glass Reaping bowls of every other year, however, a pair of projectors mounted on individual wooden stands displayed a small hologram before Elan, too small for the cameras or the children to catch but just large enough for him to read off of.

Unlike out on the outlying streets, the kids here didn't make so much as one wrong move. The machine gun nests mounted on the Justice Hall's roof and the combat hovercraft hanging in the sky made sure of that. The cameras here were for real, after all, and the whole country would be watching this. It had to be perfect.

"Our male tribute for the 100th Games," Elan said in his typical respectful, solemn tone that he reserved for the Reaping, "is Quinn Cidaris."

Quinn was just as I'd seen him in the Capitol database. Tall, thin, but he held himself together as he walked up to the podium, knowing he'd been hand-picked for this. He looked down at his feet, but unlike so many of us – myself included – who hadn't kept it together on that long walk before the cameras, he didn't shed a tear. He was almost handsome in a way, even though he could've used ten or twenty pounds and a good deal of help from the stylists and their makeup. Something about him struck me as solemn, his clenched fists and tight lips imbued with a quiet strength. Damn.

The sight made me both approve of and regret my nomination of him to enter the Games. Maybe he'd be a better tribute than I thought, but for a split second – just a moment – I felt a fleeting empathy for the people in the streets who burned the effigy of Finch. Poor guy. Eighteen and on his last year of all this.

In a moment, that thought dissipated. We had to choose someone.

Even more so, Summer Wylie fit her database billing. _Avoidant. Cynical._ Her dark, tired eyes flitted around the other kids as if she expected one of them to lurch out and attack her as she walked up to the stage. No other emotion flickered across her high, protruding cheekbones and her thin lips. No fear, no despair, no crying, no trying to be strong for the cameras. She was all ice and emptiness. There was something missing in her expression, something childish, human even, that should have been there but wasn't. I had a fleeting flashback to Roan Hawthorne and his existential pessimism. _If he was hollowed out by the Games and whatever happened in District 12, what happened to this girl to make her look like that?_

Daud sighed as Summer stepped up to the stage, ignoring Elan's handshake. "Here we go again."


	67. The Chosen Two

_**+ Thanks melliemoo and FoxfaceFan1 for the reviews! Let's meet the new people. Shorter chapter for once.**_

**/ / / / /**

For a kid facing down the people who had doomed him to near-certain death, Quinn was a decent guy. Maybe it was resignation, or maybe he was hiding a mountain of animosity behind his friendly eyes. Genuine or deceptive, he showed no signs of pulling away from Finch, Daud, and me.

"Friends…I guess I have a couple," he answered to Finch's question while digging through a pile of leafy vegetables during dinner. "A couple guys work with me at the plant who aren't bad."

"Yeah?" Finch said. She led the conversation as Daud and I tossed glances back at forth, the two of us sizing up the kids. "So that's one of the power plants that gets the energy from the ground, right? I don't know how that kind of thing works. Explain it to me."

I had a feeling that Finch knew exactly how it worked, but her question was a good one. Let Quinn explain what he knows well and it'd boost his confidence and help endear him us. Right on cue, he failed to hide to a sheepish grin and mumbled, "It's uh…the guys who work with the important things heat up water into steam with the earth's energy and use it to push a turbine. I don't do any of that. I mean I'm eighteen, I just make sure bolts and screws don't pop up off things. It's not much."

"I dunno, sounds important," Finch said with a shrug, poking at a piece of white fish on her plate. "Terra here works on the solar plants. You should talk to her about it."

_Thanks, Finch._ _Way to put me on the spot with out-of-date information_. I hadn't told her or Daud that I'd stopped doing that since my chat with Pyre, but I wasn't about to mention any of that here. Quinn looked at me with knitted eyebrows and said, "You work? I thought you guys get paid for being victors."

Before I had a chance to explain, Summer, who'd barely spoken three words the entire dinner, chimed in: "There's probably nothing else to do most of the time."

_Astute_. I flicked a thumb her way while shoving a forkful of shimmering red shellfish in my mouth. "That."

"How 'bout you?" said Finch, taking the opportunity to poke past Summer's defenses. "You've got to be done with school by now. Work anywhere yet?" Upon receiving a shrug and the slightest shake of a head, she pushed on. "Any friends from school still?"

Another head shake. "That's not really important," Summer mumbled.

Daud fretted in my direction, his eyes giving off the vibe of _might be trouble_. "Friends help in the arena," I said. "They helped me."

"The boy from 12 slowed you down, and the other two would have killed you after taking out the tough competition, because they looked smitten and you were smaller than them," Summer countered immediately.

I scrunched my face and stared at her as I chewed a particularly tough piece of fish. "You still remember my Games?"

"It was only four years ago."

"I don't remember it that bad," Quinn said, looking uneasy at Summer's nonchalant recall of the 96th Hunger Games. "I barely even remember last year's, though."

"Nothing happened in last year's. The boy from 12 could shoot a bow well, so he killed people from distance. It didn't entertain anyone."

"That's not entirely true," I said, remembering Haymitch's near-stroke after realizing he was getting a kid out of the arena after almost fifty years of futility. "How many Games have you even seen?"

"All of them," answered Summer, as if I'd asked about the weather. She didn't even look up from her food.

A pause settled over the table until Finch, digging roads through a side of mashed potatoes with her fork, piped up, "Do you like watching them?"

"Nothing else to do in the past," said Summer with a shrug. Just as soon as she'd gotten to talking, she returned to inspecting her meager dinner, pushing peas and sliced carrots around her plate into little green and orange pyramids.

Quinn, still looking unsettled after that last conversation, said, "So I guess we're not watching the Reapings?"

"Nah. You don't need to worry about the other kids just yet," Finch said, shaking her head. "Besides, you'll see them tomorrow during the chariot ride. You can talk to them then and get first impressions if you want, or wait until the training days."

"'Bout bad first impressions too," Daud chimed in for once. He'd been just as quiet as Summer the whole dinner, watching, studying, saving his words. "Thought Terra was a damn crybaby when I first saw her. 'Course I was right, but I might have been wrong and gotten the wrong impression."

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks."

"It's about going in with an open mind," Finch added. "You know, maybe there's a tribute who looks small or weak but has a great mind for strategy, or maybe there's this huge hulk who actually has a good heart and isn't crazily merciless."

"How do you even go about all that? Making friends when it's…the Games and all," Quinn asked.

Finch waved her fork in the air as she searched for the right phrase. "It's, I mean, everyone's just people, right? Talk to people like people. Most of the other kids won't be gunning for blood. They're not psychopaths. You don't go through your usual day wishing everyone around you would keel over and die, do you?"

"Sometimes," Summer said.

Based on my past year in District 5, I couldn't really disagree with her.

Our two tributes headed off to bed as the sky outside darkened, the moon already high in the black sky late on a summer night. Dark desert plains raced past outside the train. There were no lights out here, so far from civilization, the landscape lit up only by the crescent moon and the twinkling stars. The white and blue milky band of the galaxy arced overhead, reaching out from some distant mountain peak far to the north. Somewhere out there where the band reached the horizon, the glittering silver and yellow lights of the Capitol glowed to the tune of anticipation and hype of uncharted Hunger Games territory.

Onboard the train, everything felt like business as usual, however. Finch dwelled on the minutest details of the dinner conversations, feeling as if she'd missed an opportunity to add some critical advice. Daud swirled wine around his silver goblet, looking as if he'd rather be rotting outside in the desert than slouching in the luxury of the dinner car. I only gazed at my half-eaten plate of food, wondering why I should bother finishing it when an unending buffet of the stuff waited for me as early as the next morning.

"The girl's like a damn carbon copy of you," Daud grumbled after downing his sixth glass. He wasn't even tipsy. "Go back to '74 and '75, and there's Finch, telling me everything I should be doing. This is what happens when know-it-alls win."

"I had a little bit of tact," said Finch, looking irritated with her nose scrunched and her mouth half-turned down in a frown. "The boy's a good sport, though. Listen, I can handle Summer fine on my own. Daud, why don't you and Terra mentor Quinn? It's kind of obvious that it'll be better to mentor them separately this year. They're way different people."

"Joy," muttered Daud.

"I'm surprised you're still coming," I said to Daud. "With three of us now…I thought you'd want to stay home."

He shrugged and eyed his empty goblet. "Nostalgia. I can't get enough misery and helplessness to satisfy me at home. The drinks are also better, and I don't ever have to leave our floor to get as much as I want."

"Why don't you at least try some baby steps and drink with other people?" Finch suggested.

He smirked. "I'm drinking to escape all the sanctimonious shits of the world, not humor them."

Hard to argue with that.

Huge, down bedspread. A shower with twenty, thirty dials controlling the kind of things only people with no drama in their lives could worry about. A one-way, floor-to-ceiling window looking out at the nighttime sky and the plains outside. My own personal chandelier, maybe a quarter of the size of the ones in the main train cars but still dainty enough to rattle and tinkle with every big bump the train ran over. I could get lost in the bedrooms of the train car if I spent more than two nights a year in them. They were even more glamorous than the rooms in the Training Center, even if the latter were much larger and sported those nifty holographic walls that one could program to show any scene from around Panem. I'd rather see the real outside.

I'd left my door open as I stepped into the bathroom to take a shower I emerged dripping water and in a bath towel to see Quinn peeking into the room from the hallway with wide eyes.

"Are you going to bed?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Oh. I'll –"

"No, I – what's up?" He waffled for a response, and to give him time to get his thoughts together, I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder and added, "Can I get changed first?"

He backed off into the hall before I could step into the bathroom again. Despite what the Capitol reports said, the kid could use some more confidence. I thought it over as I draped a blue nightgown around my shoulders. The air conditioning prompted goosebumps to creep out across my arms and back, and as soon as I opened the door for Quinn, I pulled a blanket across me to stay warm.

He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and mumbled, "Are you okay?"

"I'm just cold," I said. "Can't sleep?"

"Probably, but –" He stopped, looked out into the hallway, and shut the door before taking a seat on the bed next to me. "Just wanted to ask something. Do you have to mentor us together? Since we're the same district at all?"

"No. We were gonna mentor you separate. Daud and I were gonna be for you."

He looked relieved. "Alright. Yeah, it's nothing. Stupid question."

"Is something up?"

"Nah. Nothing."

That didn't sound very convincing. I did my best to force a smile and said, "You don't have to team with Summer just because you're from the same district, Quinn. I didn't team with my partner, Glenn. We weren't much alike, so we went our separate ways. It's just how things are."

"No, it's just…nah, I feel stupid for bringing it up. I'll go to bed."

"I'm not going to judge you. I've seen enough tributes. Heck, the whole country saw everything I did in the arena. You don't have to play tough in private like this. What is it?"

He considered what I said for a moment before biting his tongue and saying in a slow, cautious voice, "It's…I do remember one Hunger Games once. It was the 72nd, the one the other mentor, Daud, won. I just remember him near the endgame stabbing his district partner in the back, and I get the feeling Summer's the same kind of person who'd do that. She's just, I mean, I dunno, I don't want you to think I'm out to get her already or something, but she's so robotic and all. Like she doesn't even have a feeling."

I let that settle while I worked on my reply. "There's lots of other kids you can make friends with. Look, I don't know much about Summer, and she didn't say much during dinner so maybe she's awesome, but if you don't like her, you don't have to. Just focus on you, alright? I'm mentoring you personally, and so's Daud – and he's not that bad, really – so we're gonna make sure you're okay. Don't worry so much about everyone else just yet."

"Why'd you pick us?" he blurted out as soon as I finished. He looked like he regretted it as soon as the words had left his mouth, as crimson flushed his cheeks. "I don't mean –"

"No, it's okay," I said. Sort of. Inside, it hurt. I knew the question would come eventually, but I hadn't prepared a good answer. "We couldn't just say no to the whole Quell thing. I know we look kinda guilty, and I'm trying not to feel that way, but someone was going to get picked. When you're a victor, you're not really free to do anything. If the Capitol tells us to do something, we have to. Otherwise, who knows. So we tried to find people who had a good chance to do something in the arena and come back home, and…" I felt as if I'd regret saying the next part, but I pushed on, "and in case that didn't happen, we didn't want to hurt any parents or families. So…"

Quinn bit his lip and looked away. His pained expression made me curl up and cry inside, and I stretched out a hand to rub his shoulder. "Quinn, I don't mean –"

"Nah, that's fine," he said, standing up and stepping away from me. "I guess that's a kindness, right? I mean, yeah. That's the right thing to do."

"No, it's not right, but –"

"It's – it's fine. It's alright. I'll, uh, see you tomorrow Terra. Whenever breakfast is."

Shit. He scampered away into the hall without looking back at me. I slumped against a wall, pulling the blankets tighter around me and sighing. So much for honesty, and all this pre-Games mess would last twice as long as this year. This was already nightmarish.


	68. Sacrifices for the Television Gods

_**At long last I get this one out. Thanks everyone for all the recent views – and to the awesome melliemoo and FoxfaceFan1 as always for the great reviews! Getting back into the swing of all things Games-related as the Quell officially makes its Capitol debut.  
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**/ / / / /**

_Look at how damn important we are_.

That's what the towering, maw-like Games Control Center foyer said in its largesse and its finery. _Look at us. Look at me. Aren't you so thankful to be here? Don't you feel so damn special? _Towering columns, marble, granite, soaring to the frescoed ceiling far above. Crystal skylights letting in the late morning sun, angled just sharply enough so that not a single tip of any skyscraper poked into view no matter from where in the giant room you viewed them. New additions – a pair of small, round fountains dividing the room into thirds length-wise, the water dribbling out from a trio of silver eagles centered in each display. Pleasant scents wafted out of the rippling water at the base of each fountain – lemon, lavender, lilac, berries.

As all the victors and I waited for Galan Greene to give his introductory announcement on our first day in the Capitol, Phoebe, who slouched against a column next to me looking as if she might go crazy if the Head Gamesmaker took another minute before coming out, put it best: "I'm bored already. Ugh."

"It's all part of the drama," Quintus said, sitting on the edge of one of the fountains nearby with typically-quiet Lyric. "Every year it's time to film the action and the excitement. Need to twist the story? Watch as thirty-odd people stand around anxiously with nothing to do! For an hour! Then an encore of another hour! Don't miss this can't-miss television!"

I smirked. Being around the other victors, even for just this morning, reminded me of why I felt so bored so often in District 5. Here I had actual people my age who didn't look at the Games – and my being a victor – with either see-through sympathy, envy, or revulsion. Refreshing thing, if even for just a month or however long we'd be here this year.

Nearby, Drake looked uneasy talking with Roan. For his part, the newest victor himself looked uninterested in chatting, his eyes wandering around the hall, his hands stuffed into his pockets, responding with one- or two-word answers whenever he could. Having only met Roan once, I still wasn't sure what to make of him. I gave him this much credit – him and Haymitch, at least: I'd seen all of the Reapings by now, and out of all the districts, only 12 and 7 had gone with our strategy of picking less-privileged kids to sacrifice to the arena. Phoebe'd certainly gone the other way, with District 10 boasting two of the most brutish kids this year. Drake, Lyric, and Quintus came from districts that always put in contenders, but they hadn't pulled any punches this year, either.

"It's the Head Gamesmaker's way to take a long time, anyway," Quintus droned on as we waited. "I mean, have any of you spent time with him? Paid time, I mean, not just listening to his droll voice gas on about who knows what. He certainly took his time in bed with –"

"Can we just stop talking about that?" I cut in, cupping my hands over my ears. "I don't need to know that."

He shrugged. "I see the way you're looking at Drake over there, Terra. There's only one route to a man's heart. If you want private lessons…"

"She should pick anyone else for that," Lyric finished, inspecting her fingers out of boredom as she did.

"Well that's quite rude. You haven't even seen what I can do, and we live next door to each other. Terra, don't listen to this ingrate. She couldn't even hold herself together on the train ride here long enough to resist punching Gloss after breakfast this morning."

"It was a shove."

One particular person I wouldn't have minded punching in the face also lurked nearby. I hadn't gotten over my animosity towards Achilles McRath even two years after he'd won the 97th Games. He'd grown bigger, stronger, but even though he looked more the part of a District 2 tribute, he had a sort of…intelligence? Wiriness? I didn't know what it was that irked me as he stood in silence next to the victor who followed him, District 1's Lapis. I'd never spoken to her, the small but impossibly quick platinum blonde who'd emerged from the 98th arena with a pretty face and a penchant for ambush tactics. The prevailing rumors speculated she wasn't all there in the head, a thought given credence given that neither Quintus nor Lyric ever brought her up in conversations despite being from the same district.

"And here comes our glorious host," Quintus said with a smirk as Galan Greene walked through the chrome doors that led to the interior of the Control Center. "Time for a round of applause?"

The Head Gamesmaker looked like he heard one in his head at least, because he stepped up to a podium between the two fountains holding up his hands as if to quiet some memory of a cheering crowd. Lyric rolled her eyes.

Galan stood up, arching his back just to tilt his head back another degree or two over the rest of our gazes, and said with a long drawl, "It's so good to see you all again. Another year. Another great Games. And every year, you all and I, we've had such a good run so far."

"Is Caesar Flickerman our new Head Gamesmaker?" Phoebe murmured.

"I'm proud to announce some changes this year –"

"I'm proud to announce I'm ready for lunch."

" – just in time for the Quarter Quell, our most _fantastic_ Hunger Games yet. You heard right everybody. Everything you've done has led to this. Now, if I may…" he said. Galan adjusted his coat's collar as if he prepared to step in front of a camera broadcasting to every television in Panem and went on. "To give all our tributes a level playing field for the hundredth Hunger Games, I've extended this year's training to seven days."

"Great, kill me," Lyric grumbled. "Or learn and train how to kill me over the next seven days."

"We have a special ceremony set up with some of Panem's most famous names on the day after the private sessions," Galan went on, ignoring the murmurs of discontent swirling in the room. "So you'll have two days all to yourselves with your tributes to work out an angle. All the better, right? I know how to treat you guys."

"Like a dog. Like a dead dog. Like a dead dog run over with a truck and then backed over for good measure before being shot with a crossbow," Lyric continued.

"Finally," Galan finished, his smile so broad that it threatened to tear right off of his face, a thought that amused me. "This year and this year _only_, we're doing something _very_ special. Most of the extension period is for media and dignitaries – it's that kind of year, folks, so added incentive and glory to you if you win – but we've got one special occasion the night before this year's kickoff. Usually we start the day after Cicero and Caesar's big interview night, but not this year. Instead, we're bringing to you the biggest one-night event in Games history. We'll have a formal gala that night, for the most exclusive guests and eyes. That's right, _exclusive_."

"Every tribute, every victor and mentor and stylist and escort here," he said, looking as if he'd burst from pride despite the mix of bored and angry eyes around the room. "Not only that. _Not only that_, but also, it'll be held at President Snow's very own mansion. You might even meet her. The most exclusive guests, a chance to show of your tributes in private in front of the biggest sponsors, movers, and shakers you can imagine, and the opportunity to show one another up and earn pride for your district – what more could you want? How about that?"

Frustrated staring and muffled grumbling gave him his answer. I fought to contain my mixed feelings over the "gala." So Calla'd rebuilt the place – I hadn't been back to her mansion since the explosion three years ago, the assassination that still weighed on me when I was alone and had time to let my mind wander. Then to bring Quinn and Summer there, in front of all the other kids, all the other victors, all the other…_those people_? The thought of what would happen that night made me shudder.

Galan finished his announcement, but I didn't get the chance to escape the Control Center right away like the other victors did. Haymitch corralled me near the exit, his beard and ragged gray hair looking even older than usual, his eyes more limp and tired than last year.

"This is a fun year," he grumbled as he walked up. His clothes didn't fit him so well anymore, hanging off of his shoulders in more pronounced sheets than in past Games. "Now we have a 'gala.' Excited, sweetheart?"

"I didn't plan it," I mused. "Aren't you gonna take Roan around?"

He looked sheepish. "Pushed him off on the escort for today. Look, I don't like asking favors, so let me just get on with this. This is like the pinnacle of shit situations. I don't play escort very well, so dragging him around while trying to manage a bunch of freaks like our stylists…it's my favorite thing to do, you know, except for every other thing there is to do in this world. Now there's all this Quell drama."

"So don't go to this fancy thing," I said, inspecting my fingernails and hoping this conversation wouldn't last long. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"You know, you're really helpful," he said. "You're like neck and neck with the old President Snow in the race to the bottom of empathy, you know?"

"You're neck and neck with Galan Greene in getting to the point, Haymitch."

He looked towards the door and gritted his teeth. "The kid says some weird stuff, okay? Alright, he's got a lot going on upstairs, but I can't relate to it. It's like trying to talk with a computer while pulling your nose hairs out and enjoying it. I'll actually have more fun trying to mentor then showing him around all that new victor stuff."

"He was talking with Drake just now. Just let him show him around, then."

"Yeah, I overheard that conversation, and Little Odair was doing a pretty bad job hiding his contempt. I'm not giving him to the Careers –" _Careers_. Hilarious terminology from District 12. " –either, so c'mon, sweetheart. I'm old. Take a little pity on an old man."

I rolled my eyes: "If I'm the President Snow of empathy, how am I supposed to take pity on you?"

"Is this like the new fad where you're from? Let's try to piss off everyone as much as possible?"

"Well, I mean, you could be a little clearer. What do you want me to do, exactly? Just tell Roan, hey, this is a chariot parade? I think he's probably watched television before."

"I don't know, I'm not a damn escort. Just – how about tonight you just stick with him for the chariot parade. Give him some company, because I'm not good company at these fancy events and you can at least keep up appearances with these Capitol people."

_More than you know, Haymitch_. Fine. If he just wanted me to sit with Roan through the parade, whatever. Our conversation left us the last two in the Control Center foyer with everyone else hurrying out, however, leaving me easy prey for Galan Greene's wandering eyes.

"Just the person I wanted to get alone!" the Head Gamesmaker cried as Haymitch beat a hasty retreat. I groaned inside and prepared for the worst. "You're a little more in the know than the others, I'm guessing."

Faking my best smile, I said, "Not really."

"Oh, of course," he said, waving me off like I was joking. "I suppose you're the most excited for the gala. Home turf, as it might be, given that the president's daughter has taken a liking to you ever since you've been here. It's all for the money of course. Tributes aside, think of how much of the money we'll bring in from sponsorships? It's a mountain."

"Which is just going to the tributes."

"Oh, of course," he said, winking. "But really. I want to ask you for a bit of a favor, given your, uh, somewhat unique situation as a victor. Taurus wants a meeting tomorrow, and I wanted to catch you before then."

I had a bad feeling about this, much worse than the favor Haymitch had asked of me. "What do you want?"

"It's a bit of a professional hitch," he said, licking his lips. "That unkempt sloth Julian Tercio has been getting on my case as of late, pestering me over this and that. Funding and budgets he cries one day, excess he cries the next. It's as if he doesn't want these Games to be a great success. Every time I suggest something fantastic, he throws a fit. Maybe it's his terrible job weighing him down, but the man's a loon. I know he must have it out for me out of envy – any man who had to maintain streets and sewers and tunnels would – but it's getting ridiculous, and he brings it up _all the time_. I can't much petition any of the others you're familiar with – Taurus, Lucrezia, obviously not Cyrus – but you're good at talking with these people. Just try and find out what his deal is, if you can."

He paused as if in thought, raised his hand, and said in a lower voice, "And if you can find any dirt on him, too, I'd be grateful. Everyone's had it with Julian. It wouldn't be much of a loss if he took a tumble. You know. I might be grateful enough to…well, you're a beautiful young girl, and I've got a spacious place here in the downtown. I meet even show you around it. I've a bed that reaches from wall to wall. Thirteen individual chandeliers above it."

Hiding my revulsion was a tougher feat than winning the Games. From the moment he finished, I decided I had no intention of helping the Head Gamesmaker. He didn't need to know that, however – and I did want to know what Julian might make of this little task. Galan might have been on point with the "unkempt" description of the Capitol's administrator, but I'd always gotten along alright with Julian, despite his almost complete lack of etiquette. One thing at a time, however.

"Sure," I lied to Galan. "It's an important year after all. Gotta make sure everything's right so my tributes have the best chance at success, right?"

He chuckled. "Well. I'm not so sure about going _that_ far, but…stranger things have happened in the Games, hm?"

Stranger things indeed. The thought crept into my head that maybe, _maybe_, there might be something worth helping – or faking helping – this idiot for. He was the Head Gamesmaker, after all, and money wasn't the only thing that could buy help in the Hunger Games.

**/ / / / /**

"You're gonna go hang with him? He's, uh…he's a bit out there, Terra."

I frowned at Drake and crossed my arms. The crowds had already filled the Avenue of the Tributes to the brim, the music played from great sets of drums and long brass trumpets, and gold and red fireworks rained color across the night sky. A handful of other tributes scattered throughout our cordoned-off area of the stands near the City Circle – Phoebe, Quintus, and Lyric in one pack, Achilles and Lapis off to the rear of the cordon, Johanna, Cecelia, Finnick, and a few older victors nearby. Only one victor stood alone, Roan, propped up on his elbows leaning forward on the front metal railing overlooking the street where Quinn, Summer, and other kids would soon come rolling down, swathed in ridiculous getups and pushed along in their gilded chariots.

"You're really nice," I told Drake with a scowl. "You're mad I'm gonna go talk with someone else for tonight?"

He shrugged and glanced back at Phoebe. "Quintus already had one of the avoxes get us drinks. You're gonna make us drink without you?"

"Maybe I want to be sober for a night. Wow."

"No, like…" Drake let his words trail off. "I was talking to that guy earlier back when the Head Gamesmaker was doing his intro, and he's – uh, not really all there. Like one of those victors, you know. You ever seen those two older ones from District 6, strung out on morphling and all?"

I was getting fed up with him. Maybe I was just hanging out with Roan to do Haymitch a favor, but Drake didn't have to take a dump on the kid in his first Hunger Games as a victor. "Are you that desperate not to miss me for all of the next thirty minutes or an hour or whatever when I'll be…ten or twenty steps away from you?"

He rolled his eyes and forced an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Poop on the party. See you, Terra."

"See you" meant Drake wandered all of a dozen feet or so to where Phoebe chatted with the others. There was something in his voice that bothered me, like he didn't want me talking with the new guy out of some annoyance. What the heck was that about?

Drake shot a dark look my way as I wandered up to Roan. The new victor from District 12 didn't so much as flinch at my presence, only watching the street, watching the stands, the throngs of people in all their colors like so many mismatched puzzle pieces in some writhing, psychedelic amalgam. The smell of sulfur from the fireworks merged with the perfumed air piped out of vents in the stands, swirling into an unpleasant miasma that tingled my nose. Between the smell, the explosion of color, movement, and light going on all around me, and the banging of drums and blaring of trumpets, my brain's sensory inputs threatened to short-circuit.

After an awkward moment of silence between us, I did my best at jumpstarting a conversation: "They'll probably be out soon. Everyone just loses their minds over the chariots and it's kinda stupid."

"Yup."

Not even a look my way. Damn. "Did, uh, did Haymitch show up with you and show you around this stuff?"

"Nah. The escort did. He's in the Training Center."

Pshew. Getting a casual conversation started with Roan involved pulling teeth. A lot of me wanted to smile in defeat and retreat back to Drake and the others. It'd been a long day: I'd barely woken Quinn up in time for breakfast, and Finch, Daud, and I had ended up hurrying through a list of last-minute reminders and notes about the pre-Parade business before we pulled into the Capitol's train station. From there, a rush from place to place – the Control Center, a brief interview, a check-in with two of our more reliable sponsors (already), then getting ready for this whole song-and-dance. I wanted to take a little time for myself before things got _really_ hectic.

I'd told Haymitch I'd hang around with Roan, however. My word meant a little more around the other victors than it did around the likes of the people I found myself around most of the time, the likes of Pyre, Lucrezia, Calla Snow, and ninety-nine percent of people back home. I actually gave a little care about what the victors thought of me.

I shifted from foot to foot, searching for something to break the ice. "Long day?"

"Long enough."

"Yeah? What kinda things did Haymitch get you into already?"

He sighed, leaned back, dropped into a seat, and said, "Not enough to make awkwardly breaking the ice interesting."

Alright, come on. "Look, if you want me to go away, just say it. I'm just trying to be friendly."

"Fine. I ate, I talked to people, I walked around, and I pretended to smile. Great conversation starter," he said, looking irritated, his brow scrunched.

The great doors at the bottom of the Remake Center rumbled open, the crowd roaring in anticipation, the music building, all as the holographic projectors lined down the avenue revved up, ready to project each tribute's image for the whole country to see. Anxiety bounced around my gut like a collection of toddlers giddy at the sight of an elaborately-decorated cake in the bakery windows back home.

"I guess watching like this is all kind of stupid," I said, more to myself than the Roan. "This doesn't even matter that much. The scores and the interviews and your own pitching does all the work in sponsorship duty."

"It's the delusion that counts," replied Roan. He didn't make eye contact, didn't even look towards the Remake Center as District 1's chariot's horses pulled into view, a pair of bright, starry white mares.

_Jazz. Vim. _Big kids, pretty faces, stupid names, nothing else to note. Fantastic job with the selection, Quintus and Lyric. "Why delusion?"

"The teleological dissonance of being down there," said Roan, getting back up and taking a look around at the stands behind him. I doubted he'd even noticed the chariots pulling out onto the street. "That little thought in your brain tells you, me, me, I'm here for a reason. I've got a purpose in the world. I was put here to do something important. Meanwhile, one look around tells you that you're just a statistic. District 1, male. District 12, male. District 5, female. Odds, thirty-to-one, three-to-one, whatever. You start turning mental circles on that chariot as everyone waves at District 1, male, telling yourself that you've got a meaningful reason for being here besides the only real reason of getting sacrificed to the television gods."

"It's not even a Quell or a punishment or whatever anymore," he said, his voice lowering. "For all the idiots in the stands like you and me, it's just stupid fun. No, those kids can't be kids. They're just District 1, male, District 5, female, District 12, male. They're just here for me. Me. They don't have thoughts and feelings, just me. I'm special enough to hold this contest. Just the mental gymnastics of every side of this thing is nauseating. Even for me."

I twisted my jaw as Jade and Jasper from District 2 rolled out onto the streets. He was athletic, the same slim trim of Achilles, whereas she sported the typical bulky and muscular build I'd seen from so many other District 2 tributes. Given the kind of things Quintus had told me about District 1 and the Hunger Games, I doubted either of the first two districts had had much difficulty with this year's Quell twist.

The crowd ate it up anyway. A small section across the street started up a chant – _Jade, Jade, Jade_ – as District 2's female selectee raised a confident, iron fist. Her loose, leather outfit, ostensibly light infantry armor but giving little room for one's imagination of her body, only egged the crowd on more. "So if you were one of those people over there, what do you do?" I asked Roan.

"Assuming I had a choice, which I doubt," he said, "Just not show up."

"A lot of them are obsessed with only what everyone else thinks, so that might not work too well."

"That's the point. You can't change an hour ago, and an hour from now doesn't exist yet. Neither of them is really real. Only now is, so, hell, I might as well live in my own little universe where this isn't happening. If I lived here and had the money and power to do it, sure," said Roan.

I frowned. "That doesn't change anything. It's still going on whether you're here or not."

"Yeah. But it wouldn't be going on in my house or on my television. I don't have to bark or heel like a dog on camera. These people are all doing it willingly. I think some part of them deep down says that it's all stupid and it feels stupid, but they're so trapped in this idea that everyone else has to see them out having fun, the thought that and fear that they can't miss out on every possible activity to brag about, that they get caught up in stupid things like this. It's like a social disease taken to the extreme. I bet if every single one of them but one person lit themselves on fire, that last person would too, just to say they didn't miss out on it."

Hm. That…didn't sound too far off the mark, actually. Maybe he used a few too many big words and went on with ideas that could be summed into a sentence, but Roan had an insight into this stuff. "That's basically a hundred percent of sponsorship-gathering, so…yeah."

"Is that the same thing as hitting your kid and telling it you'll hit it again unless it sings for you?" said Roan, watching as the two kids from District 4 paraded onto the street.

District 4's stylist had gone off the deep end with the costumes this year. I don't know if he or she had wanted to go for the aggressive theme, but both tributes – Ceph and Alari – wore idiotic sea creature costumes. The boy, Ceph, donned a silver and blue suit of a shark that went from head to toe, the shark's head stretching out from his own with an idiotic grin, its tail trailing off of the chariot's rear. _Ouch_. Alari's was even worse if that was possible, a sort of kraken-octopus hybrid, with orange-brown tentacled arms hanging down from her midsection as she waved sheepishly to the crowd. They looked like tough kids who could hold their own in a fight, but from the way they wilted under the weight of their costumers, I saw their stylists had given Drake, Finnick, and the District 4 party a substantial hurdle to clear.

Roan noticed too: "That's it right there," he said, jabbing his finger at the two kids as if he could spear them with his fingertip. "If anyone actually gave a crap about sponsorship, this wouldn't even be a thing. I'd just put together some analytics, study what made a good victor, what traits, then make a database on incoming tributes based on who fits the appropriate criteria to maximize my chances of sponsoring a winner. Numbers don't lie. Instead people base their ideas on what some eccentric comes up with for a costume, then rides along based on how a teenager adapts to a life-or-death situation in a week. Or two weeks, this year. That's just idiocy: the event."

I barely focused on what he was saying as the District 5 chariot rolled out. Rhea and her stylist team hadn't put in their best effort: Quinn and Summer wore matching cloaks dominated with square silver panels, as if each were a living, breathing solar power array. Red lightning bolts hung off of them at odd angles, floppy and ill-fitting with the skin-tight uniforms. To his credit, Quinn tried his best to keep the crowd entertained: He waved, gave his biggest grin, and pointed out a patron or two in the crowd here or there as he heard someone shout his name.

Thank the Gods Finch was handling Summer. She didn't so much as even muster a wave, folding her hands in front of her, keeping her chin tilted up as she watched the crowd and the other tributes as if seeing it all on television.

Roan laughed. "Your girl gets it. You can't fix a stupid costume. I like her."

At the moment, I didn't. Damn it, Summer. At least pretend to smile.


End file.
